


Scenes from Another Life

by Telesilla



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: AU, Beating, Breathplay, Bukkake, Caning, Collars, Dom/sub, Edging, Flogging, M/M, Master/Slave, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, The Establishment, consensual sexual slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-08-18 10:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8159456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telesilla/pseuds/Telesilla
Summary: "Lot Five: Timothy. Bidding begins at one hundred-thousand US Dollars."
 To Buster's complete surprise, he raises his hand.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 

Buster Posey's been called boring more than once in his life. And maybe, as the supposed current "face of baseball", he should have at least some style. He guesses he could try to develop a little swag, but that would probably be worse. It's better to be bland than look like he's faking it.

Even his taste in slaves is, if not boring, pretty standard. 

With a mental shrug Buster settles in his seat in the auction hall and flips through this year's catalog. The Winter Auction is usually the largest of the year; the catalog is thick with pictures and information about the seventeen slaves up for sale. Because they assume you've read the actual files on the slaves you're interested in, there are far more pictures than text.

"It's like a kinky coffee table book," Brandon says quietly as he glances at his own catalog. He and Bum are here for the weekend long party more than anything else. The showroom can get crowded; they didn't come in to look at the slaves along with Buster. There's plenty of room here in the auction hall, however and lots of people come to watch, even if they have no intention of buying. 

"Just don't leave it on the coffee table when you have some of the guys over," Buster says.

"I dunno," Brandon says. "This one, the redhead? I bet most of the team would be all over her."

"Wow," Bum says. "I'd be all over her. Bet that pale skin marks up real well."

"She's not a real redhead," Brandon says. 

Buster flips through the rest of the girl's pictures. "How can you tell? She's shaved."

"That's not a natural red."

"You spent way too much time in the salon with your mom," Bum mutters. 

Brandon rolls his eyes. "Jerk." 

They're all speaking quietly--church voices--but Buster still shakes his head. "Seriously, you guys are why I don't have kids."

"I thought it was because you're hella gay," Brandon says. 

"That too."

"Good evening and Happy New Year! The Establishment Los Angeles welcomes you to the Winter Auction."

Buster's met this Auctioneer--a tall, broad, Black woman in a tux--at various times. She doesn't try to be funny, but she has the trick of making you feel like you have all her attention, even in a room full of people. As she goes through her opening spiel, Buster settles in to listen.

The boy Buster's planning on bidding for is Lot Eight; Buster flips ahead to his part of the catalog. Kyle's a handsome boy with sandy hair and bright blue eyes. He's built a lot like Kontos, which is just a little weird for Buster, who would happily fuck Kontos if Kontos was at all interested. But Kyle's very much the wholesome, all American type, right down to the way he blushed when Buster looked him over. 

"I can't believe you're gonna bid on a dude named Kyle," Brandon murmurs. His middle name's Kyle, as is Bum's, and it's kind of a running joke between the two pitchers. "Of course he does look like your kind of boy."

"Pretty much," Buster says. "He's built for rough sex, likes being knocked around and he's got a service kink. And," he adds, flipping to the next page, "check out that ass."

"Oh yeah, that's nice," Brandon says. 

Unlike some people, who don't really pay attention to the Auction until the slave they're interested in comes up on the block, Buster enjoys watching. It's his competence kink; he likes watching a good ballgame between teams he really doesn't care about for the same reason. Brandon and Bum are watching intently as well. Buster knows they've thought about buying a slave once Brandon signs an extension, which, after Brandon's performance in the postseason, should happen sooner rather than later.

The redhead--Cassandra--goes up fifth. Watching her Trainer put her through her paces, Buster almost wishes he liked girls. Bum was right, she marks up well and, dyed or not, her hair looks good in her Trainer's hand as he pulls her up onto her toes. Bum's leaning forward, clearly liking what he's seeing. Brandon seems more amused than annoyed; as far as Buster knows, when it comes to girls, these days, Bum just looks. 

Cassandra goes for a very good price and, as her Trainer leads her away, Buster flips idly to the next section of the catalog. 

Timothy (usually goes by Tim)--inked, pierced, short and skinny with long dark hair. Not pretty but attractive in a different way. He has nice cheekbones and he looks good in black leather. Of course, they all look good in black leather, Buster thinks. Then again, he also looks good in bright red women's lingerie and heavy iron chains and rope bondage and in a pair of black feathered angel wings....

The angel wing pictures are interesting. In the largest of the three picture set, Tim is looking at the camera with a little smile that seems to say, "isn't this ridiculous?" It's not insolent, more like he's inviting the viewer to laugh with him. Buster flips through the rest of the pictures, but he finds himself coming back to the angel wing shot.

"Lot Six, Timothy," The Auctioneer says. "Tim is an experienced slave; this is his sixth sale. Most recently, he's been through a refresher course with Master Ethan." As she says his name, Ethan brings Tim out. Tim's in a leather harness but otherwise naked and maybe he's skinny, but even from Buster's third row seat, he can see the lean muscles of Tim's arms and legs.

As Ethan puts Tim through the standard positions, Buster glances quickly at the catalog. Sixth sale, he thinks...how old is Tim? Thirty. Buster's not sure how he'd feel about having a slave who was older than him. According to the copy, Tim's got a service kink and he's a serious masochist. Nothing all that unusual, but the fact that all five of his former owners gave him excellent references says a lot. 

A gasp from the stage draws Buster's gaze back to Tim. Ethan's got Tim over his lap and is spanking him. Tim squirms a little and Ethan doesn't try to keep him still. It's a good decision, Buster thinks, just as Brandon leans over.

"Looks good like that."

"Yeah," Buster says, eyes on the stage. Tim's not his kind of boy, but Buster knows Ethan fairly well. He's always fun to watch.

Brandon leans in the other direction to say something to Bum, but Buster ignores them. Probably joking around, he thinks.

On stage, once Ethan's done spanking Tim, he turns Tim around. Tim hasn't really got much of an ass, but it sure looks good all red like that. Buster glances back at the catalog; Tim's ass looks like it's all muscle like his arms and legs. Buster usually likes boys with a little more padding.

Ethan finishes Tim off with a good heavy flogger, and, unlike the spanking, tells him to stay still. And Tim does, even when Ethan really lays into it. Even when he starts crying out, he only shivers a little between blows. 

Bum leans over Brandon and says, "Wonder what it takes to get him to move?"

Once Tim's kneeling on the stage, blindfolded and wearing earplugs, the lights come up. "Lot Six: Timothy. Bidding begins at one hundred-thousand US Dollars."

To Buster's complete surprise, he raises his hand.

* * *

Still a little bemused, both at his snap decision to buy Tim and the amount of money he spent doing so, Buster heads toward the showroom. 

"Call us later?" Bum asks.

"Yeah," Buster says. "I'm not sure if I'll want to go to the party. If I don't show up--have fun."

"You too." Bum reaches out and rests a hand on Buster's shoulder. "It wasn't a bad decision," he adds.

"I hope not."

As Buster walks into the showroom, he can't help glancing over at Kyle. Even as Buster watches, a butch/femme couple dressed to the nines walks up to claim him. Stop stalling, Buster thinks.

Tim's hair is falling around his shoulders as he kneels, waiting for his new owner. Buster circles around him once, but a closer look at his tattoos and piercings will have to wait.

"Eyes up," he says.

Tim's eyes are a lighter hazel than they were in his headshot and they go wide as soon as he sees Buster.

"Do you know who I am?" Buster asks. Then, before Tim can answer, he adds, "Besides being your new Master."

"Yes Master," Tim says.

"Well that saves some time," Buster says. He wonders if Tim's surprised that Buster Posey just bought him or that someone--anyone--bought him without looking him over in the showroom. "As you can probably guess, I bought you on a whim."

"Yes, Master," Tim says, ducking his head a little. As Buster looks him over, Tim starts to get hard.

"Really," Buster says. It's an interesting thing to get turned on by, but maybe it's just that Tim's on his knees in front of his new Master. He also hasn't come in at least a couple of days, maybe longer. Buster thinks about asking, but that can wait. "Really," he says again. 

"I like the hardware," he says after a quick glance at Tim's piercings. "At some point, I'll ask you what I can do with all of it. For now, though, this'll do. He pulls a temporary collar and leash out of his pocket. "Give me your neck, boy."

Tim puts his arms behind his back and leans forward, presenting his neck. He looks good like that, Buster thinks. Maybe he'll have Tim kneel with his arms behind his back all the time.

"We'll do a whole thing later once I've picked a collar out for you." Tim's neck is nice and long; Buster can go for something tall if he wants to. Or something simple. Or both. Tim will need something he can wear outside the house. 

The temporary collar is simple black leather with a buckle. Still, Buster can hear Tim sigh a little and something about the set of his shoulders changes a little. Relief, maybe. Tim's day probably started long before Buster rolled out of bed. Then again, he also sighs when Buster clips the leash onto the collar, so maybe it's something else.

"C'mon then," Buster says, tugging the leash a little.

Bum and Brandon have wandered off, but Buster pauses and talks to a few people he knows as they leave the Auction rooms and head across the inner lobby of the club. He doesn't bother with any real conversations, though. He can talk to people later; for now, he wants to be alone with his new boy, if only to set some ground rules. Well, not only that.

"Master?" Tim says as they enter the elevator. "May this boy ask a question?"

"Yeah, but don't use formal voice." Buster pauses for a second. "I know people who like it, but does anyone actually use it 24/7?" 

Belatedly, he realizes the question might sound like a question about Tim's former owners, but Tim just smiles. "Only occasionally, Master. Usually in training."

"Right," Buster says. He thinks it's stupid, but now's not the time. "Anyway, you had a question?"

"Yes, Master. I was going to ask if you wanted me to kneel," Tim says as the elevator stops and the doors open.

"Yeah a little late for that," Buster says with a smile. "Don't sweat it. And don't kneel in elevators; it's usually a waste of time."

Buster keeps hold of the leash even after they’ve reached his room, but once the door closes behind them, he turns and says, “Open your mouth.”

The black leather handle of the of the leash looks perfect in Tim’s mouth. When Buster reaches out and twists one of Tim’s nipples hard, Tim whimpers a little and his eyes go wide. Buster tugs up and Tim moves with him, going up on the balls of his feet. He whimpers again and Buster grins. “I’m going to gag you so much,” he says. So often, he thinks, but doesn’t bother to correct himself aloud. With one more twist of Tim’s nipple, Buster lets go.

Even as Tim’s steadying himself, Buster turns his back on him. “Suit jacket,” he says, holding his arms away from his body. Tim’s there immediately, his hands deft as he eases Buster’s suit jacket off him. “Put it in the closet in the bedroom and then get a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge for me.”

Buster heads into the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror for a long moment before splashing some cold water on his face. What the hell was he thinking, buying a slave almost sight unseen? It's really not like him at all.

With a slight shake of his head, Buster dries his face off and drags his thoughts back to the here and now. He’s got a boy to play with and he should check in with Bum and Brandon. Buster glances in the mirror one more time–he looks as tired and washed out as he feels--before heading back into the living area of his suite.

Tim's kneeling next to the coffee table, bottle of water offered up properly in both hands. "Don't bother with stuff like that," Buster says, taking the bottle. "I'll tell you if I want you to be on formal behavior."

Tim bows his head and Buster gives into the urge to reach out and run his fingers through Tim's hair. It's sleek and silky but when Buster twists his hand, he can get a good firm grip. It's a nice handful, but Buster's still not sure if he wants Tim to keep it that long. He doesn't know yet if Tim hides behind it or not; if he does, it will have to go.

"Okay," he says, letting go of Tim's hair. "Up on the coffee table, on your knees,  
hands behind your back."

It's not really far enough for Tim to crawl, but somehow he manages to shuffle over to the coffee table and then get on to it without looking clumsy. He's not exactly feline, but Buster's looking forward to seeing him crawl. Once he's in position he puts his arms behind his back and arches just a little.

"Back straight," Buster says. "That's the position I want to see when I tell you to kneel. Head down until I first talk to you; you can meet my eyes or not when we're talking."

Now, finally, Buster can get a good, close, look at his new boy. He walks slowly around the coffee table a couple times like he would in the showroom before a sale. In spite of the fact that Tim isn't the slave he planned on buying, more and more, Buster's pleased with his choice. Tim's...different. 

As a whole, the Giants aren't a particularly tattooed team, but Buster's seen plenty of ink during in his time in the game. Nothing like Tim though--the starkness of the black geometric patterns that cover Tim's arms and part of his chest and legs is broken up by flashes of color that look more like watercolors than actual tattoos. To his surprise, Buster likes the overall look and he's pleased, but not all that surprised, that the only tattoos on Tim's back are on the small of his back in the no-hit zone. Not that Buster needs the reminder, but it looks good. 

The ink is fascinating, but Buster's more interested in the piercings--ears, nipples, and then the hardware on his dick. Buster reaches down and runs his fingers over the barbells set like a ladder up Tim's dick. When he reaches the PA and tugs on it, It's slick with precome and Tim catches his breath loudly as Buster plays with it.

"Leash," Buster says, reaching up. He holds out his hand and Tim leans down, only opening his mouth once Buster has the leash in hand. The handle is a little damp, but given the amount of time Tim's spent with it in his mouth, Buster hasn't got a problem with that. Slaves are supposed be able to put things in their mouths and keep them dry, but Buster thinks that's more theory than anything.

"Can I attach a leash to this?" he asks, giving the PA another tug.

"Yes, Master," Tim says, his voice just a little husky. "As long as whoever is holding the leash doesn't pull too hard for too long."

"Good," Buster says. "I might just have a thing for leashes."

Tim smiles a little and then catches his breath again while Buster plays with the ring. Tim's dick looks painfully hard; Buster's pretty sure Tim could come just from this if Buster allowed it. He knows damn well that Tim would come if he was told to. Buster's always found that hot.

"How long's it been since they let you get off?"

"Six days, Master."

"Longer than usual," Buster says as he gets to his feet. 

"Yes, Master. My trainer likes the way I look when I'm desperate."

Buster's not exactly used to slaves who volunteer information like that, but all he can think is that Tim's trainer isn't the only one who likes that. He circles Tim once more and then settles down in on the couch. 

"Okay, on your knees in front of me now."

"Yes, Master." 

There's not enough room, but Tim quickly pushes the coffee table out of the way and settles in front of Buster. Buster looks at him silently for a while, toying with the leash. Mine, he thinks and then thinks it again, letting the word settle in his head. 

Mine.

It never really sinks in until after he's had sex with a new boy, of course. To do that, though, Buster has to get some of the more boring stuff out of the way.

"All right," he says. Tim looks up right away. 

"Like I said, I bought you on a whim," Buster says. "But I think you'll do." Buster's never had a boy who wore makeup, but he likes the thin lines of black eyeliner ringing Tim's green eyes. He's pretty sure Tim's brows have been worked over and he's wearing a touch of mascara. Buster wonders what it looks like when he cries. Yeah, he'll do, all right. 

"The thing is--baseball players, even famous ones, don't have entourages. And even if they did, I wouldn't."

Tim's mouth moves just a little.

"Go ahead."

"I can't really imagine it, Master," Tim says with a smile.

"Yeah, me neither," Buster says, smiling back. "But the front office and the team know I'm gay and they know I have the occasional person in my life. As long as I'm...I was going to say careful, but closeted is more like it. So there will be times when I'll ask you to meet me on roadies and since you're an Establishment slave and know how to be discreet, no one will have a problem with it.

"Still, you'll end up spending a fair amount of time alone. I have ways to remind you of what you are...." He pauses and he can hear the breath catch in Tim's throat. "Yeah," Buster continues. "You're not gonna forget your place; you're gonna be good for me, aren't you, boy?"

"Yes, Master." Tim gets the words out fast and he looks so eager and yeah, okay, Buster thinks. He can stop worrying that buying Tim was a mistake. 

"There's not really much more you need to know about how the job affects things. I'm a pretty simple person. There's baseball and all the associated work, and then there's sex." 

Wow, he thinks. Could he sound more dull? Not that it matters; he doesn't care if he bores Tim or not. That's why he buys slaves instead of having a boyfriend. 

"How much do you actually know about baseball?" he asks.

"A fair amount, Master," Tim says. "I grew up watching it and I keep up." There's something--a hint of a smile around his eyes--that makes Buster wonder what he's not saying. Not that it matters; Buster doesn't care if his boys don't tell him everything. As long as Tim answers direct questions and obeys orders--that's enough for Buster.

"Which team?"

"Mariners, Master. And more recently, because of my last owners, the Cubs." 

"Well, I don't expect you to become a lifelong Giants fan, but I do expect you to know about the team. And I want you to watch or at least listen to all our regular season games unless you have a good reason not to."

"Yes, Master. I would anyway, Master."

"Good. I don't insist on extreme formality, especially at home. Here and at the other clubs, though, I'll expect you to walk behind me and kneel when I stop and talk to people and all the other usual rules." Buster pauses. "You're hardly a rookie, so I don't really have to spell all those out, do I?"

"No, Master."

"Good." Buster toys with the end of the leash as he looks Tim over. "I could ease you into this," he says. "Or I could just toss you into the deep end."

"Maybe off the deep end, Master," Tim says with a little smile. "I like to think I can swim pretty well."

"Oh really?" Buster's actually amused, but if Tim's going to brag, even just a little, Buster's going to call him on it. 

Before he can say anything else, his phone plays a couple bars of "Fire on the Mountain."

"Hey."

"Hey," Bum says. "So what's he like? I mean besides not being the kind of boy you always buy?"

"A little cocky, actually," Buster says. He's still looking at Tim, who bows his head and looks contrite. Buster puts a foot right in front of Tim and taps his toe on the ground. It's a standard signal; Tim goes down, right away, and presses a kiss to the toe of Buster's boot before carefully licking the leather.

"Gonna put him in his place?"

"What do you think?" Buster looks down and decides he likes the look of Tim's hair falling around his face and Buster's boot. "Hang on."

"Tim," Buster says. Tim pauses, but he stays down. "Don't get a haircut unless I tell you to."

"Yes, Master," Tim murmurs and then, once Buster puts his other foot in front of him, he starts working on it.

"Since when did you like long hair on a boy?" Bum asks with a laugh. 

"Since I saw it falling all over my boot." 

"Nice." There's a pause and Buster can hear Brandon yelling something in the background. "Brandon wants to know if you're going to share this weekend."

"Get your own boy," Buster says with a laugh. "But, because I believe in taking care of my pitchers, I'll share."

"That mean you're gonna share him with Peavy and Huddy and Cainer? How about the bullpen?"

"Jackass. What are you guys doing?" 

"Getting ready to go down to the party. You coming?"

"Nah," Buster says, looking down at Tim. "I'm good. But if you feel like booking a room for...how about Sunday, when things start to calm down a little? Get something with the usual furniture, nothing fancy."

"Fuck, you're bossy."

"I'm a fucking catcher; of course I'm bossy." 

Buster's not sure if he really heard Tim snort ever so softly. It could have been Bum or he could be imaging things. Regardless, having Tim down there is getting Buster a little worked up; he's suddenly tired of the conversation. "Okay, I've got a boy to start playing with here."

"Y'all have fun."

"You too, you dumb hillbilly."

Taking care to actually turn his phone off, Buster puts it aside and just watches Tim for a while. Even though he can't really see much, knowing what Tim's doing is hot enough. Buster leaves him down there for a another moment or two while he goes over his plan for the evening. 

"Look up," Buster finally says. At the same time, he slides the toe of his boot under Tim's chin and nudges a little. 

Tim, of course, knows not to kneel up; when he looks up, he has to crane his neck. His face is flushed and his hair is just a little messy. He looks vulnerable and hungry and suddenly Buster wants to fuck him in the worst way. 

Later, he tells himself. Later.

"It's not like I had time to look at your file," Buster says. "Kneel up and tell me something you hate; something I can hang over your head."

The look on Tim's face as he kneels up is wary for a second before surprise takes over. He pauses before answering; Buster likes that he's actually giving this some thought. 

"Tickling, Master."

"Really?" Now it's Buster's turn to be surprised. "No no, I believe you; tickling's fucking awful," he says. "It's unusual, but nice to know I don't have to put my back out beating you when you get in trouble."

The slightly wary look is back and Tim bows his head. 

"Now," Buster says. "Tell me something you love; something I can use to reward you."

There's another pause. Tim's not looking at Buster but at Buster's hands and Buster knows what he's going to say.

"Fisting, Master."

"Even after looking at my hands?" 

"Yes, Master." Tim says with a tiny smile. "Especially after looking at your hands, Master."

"All right," Buster says, trying to pretend that he's just casually considering it instead of hoping Tim will be good enough soon enough to deserve it. He's probably not fooling Tim. 

"About you bragging just a little earlier--I don't mind the occasional smart remark. Except when I'm tired and grumpy." It's part of Tim's job to figure Buster out, so Buster doesn't add that he's pretty easy to read. "And I wasn't tired and grumpy earlier," he adds.

"Thank you, Master." 

"What for?" Buster asks. Before Tim can answer, Buster's figured it out. "For the instruction, right?"

"Yes, Master."

"Don't bother to thank me for stuff like that. But if something's not clear, ask. Don't try to figure it out on your own."

"Yes, Master." 

"Overall, I'm pretty easy to deal with." Buster pauses and gives Tim a wry smile. "Or so I like to think."

This time Tim's smile is a more obvious. "Yes, Master," he says demurely. When he gives Buster a look--a little widening of his eyes and raising of his brows like he wants to ask a question--Buster nods. "Is there something in particular you'd like me to deal with right now, Master?"

Buster can't help laughing; already Tim seems to have more personality than any of Buster's former slaves. He's probably not being fair; Tim's just letting it show a lot earlier than most boys would.

"You can start by taking off my boots and socks." As usual, once his feet are bare, he feels like apologizing. It's not that they smell all that bad, but they're gnarly looking. Bum, as the whole baseball world learned last October, pretends to be afraid of them. Tim just puts Buster's boots and socks under the coffee table and then waits.

"Slacks and shorts next."

As Tim unbuckles Buster's belt, Buster unsnaps his shirt. There's no reason to, but he always thinks he looks stupid wearing his shirt all snapped up when he's not wearing pants. 

Tim gets Buster's pants and briefs off, separates them, removes Buster's belt, wallet and keys from the pants. The clothes go under the table, everything else ends up on top of the table with Buster's belt close enough to the edge to be within easy reach. Buster's pleased to see that the catalog was right about Tim being a service slave, among other things.

When Tim turns around again, his eyes go a little wide. It takes Buster a moment before he realizes that Tim likes what he sees and while it doesn't necessarily matter, it's nice to know. Buster wouldn't really want a slave who didn't think he was at least acceptable looking. Master or not, no one wants to be endured.

"I want your hands first," he says. Then, when Tim's rests his hands lightly on Buster's thighs, Buster adds, "Just go for it this time."

"Yes, Master."

Tim's got nice hands--larger than you'd think given his size, with long fingers. Pitcher's hands, Buster thinks for an absurd moment before those long fingers start stroking Buster's dick, firmly enough that it won't tickle. It's enough to make Buster sigh happily and relax; this is the easy part of the getting to know each other process. 

It gets even better when Tim starts rubbing his thumb along the underside of Buster's dick. "Mmmm...that's good," Buster says when Tim finds one of his hot spots. Tim presses a little harder. "Oh yeah," Buster says. He's already breathless and close to coming even it's only been three days for him..

"Stop," he says after a few moments. It would be so easy to tell Tim to keep going, to come all over those long fingers. Buster grits his teeth a little and tries to slow down his breathing. When he opens his eyes and looks down, Tim is looking at him curiously. Tim's face smooths out almost immediately and Buster chooses not to say anything. He's going to find "expressive" more than once when he really starts digging around in Tim's file, that's for damn sure. 

"Okay," he says after he's calmed down some. "Mouth this time, but don't blow me."

Tim licks his lips and sure, Buster's knows the Establishment teaches all their slaves to do that at times like this, but that doesn't mean it's not effective as hell. So is the feeling of Tim's warm breath just before he presses a kiss to the base of Buster's dick. Again, Tim's got the pressure just right. As he works slowly upwards, Buster takes a deep, shaky breath and then another one. 

Tim's mouth is as good as his hands; Buster's not sure he's going to make it through another round or two, once Tim starts using his tongue. It'll be better, he reminds himself. And then, as Tim runs his tongue over the head of Buster's dick, all Buster can think is, I could come all over his face right now. Well, that and, holy fuck, this feels amazing.

"Stop," he gasps. He reaches down and grabs Tim's hair, pulling his head up and away of Buster's lap. He keeps his hand in Tim's hair as he tilts head back and stares up at the ceiling. "You get what I'm doing, right?"

"Yes, Master," Tim murmurs. 

When Buster looks down at him after a moment or two, Tim looks attentive and serious. Well of course he does, Buster thinks. Boys always do, especially in the beginning when they're trying to learn a new Master's habits on the fly. 

"Your job right now is to do what I tell you to." Buster loosens his grip on Tim's hair, running his fingers through it before finally pulling his hand away. "Well, obviously," he adds, smiling at Tim. "What I meant was, don't hold back. "

"No teasing, Master." When Buster nods, Tim tilts his head a little. "May I ask," he begins and then pauses when Buster waves his hand in a "go ahead" gesture. "I get that you don't want me to hold back, Master, but once I learn your tells do you want to stop when you're close?"

"Pitchers have tells," Buster says. "Catchers give signs."

Tim laughs a little and Buster shakes his head and laughs with him. "Baseball is never that far away." 

"So I see, Master." 

"Anyway, the answer is not yet." Buster's not sure how he'd feel if someone else was making the decision to stop. He's been doing this ever since he read about it on some kinky site back in high school and he's the one who choses to either come or wait. The idea of someone else making that decision doesn't sit well at all.

Reaching out, he runs his fingers through Tim's hair again. Tim leans into it a little and when Buster slides his hand down to cup Tim's cheek, Tim turns and kisses his hand. "Good boy," Buster says quietly. It's the the first time he's said it, he realizes as Tim lets out a soft breath. 

"Thank you, Master," Tim says quietly, kissing Buster's palm again. 

"I wonder what I want next," Buster says as he moves his hand until he's cupping Tim's jaw. He presses his thumb against Tim's mouth and just looks at him. 

"I'm your slave, Master," Tim says, his lips moving against the pad of Buster's thumb. "Whatever it is, I'm here to give you whatever you want." 

Buster doesn't move his thumb for a moment. "Yeah," he says. "My slave." 

They're getting there, he thinks. It's like there's a space in his head that belonged to Jaime and before him Adrian and before him Derek, and now Tim's moving in. It's a strange thought, not the kind of thing Buster usually comes up with. Get your head in the game, he tells himself as he pushes his thumb into Tim's mouth. 

Tim sucks on Buster's thumb and looks up at him like he's thinking something similar--like he's settling into his place here with Buster. When Buster tightens his grip a little on Tim's jaw, Tim's eyes close slowly and he runs his tongue over the pad of Buster's thumb. His hair falls over Buster's hand and really, what was Buster's objection to long haired boys?

"Good boy," Buster says, after watching Tim for a little while longer. He could get off on this alone, but no. Not tonight. "Enough," he says, letting go of Tim's chin in order to grab the leash still clipped to Tim's collar. "Time to put that mouth somewhere else."

"Please, Master," Tim says. "Please?" 

Wrapping the leash around his wrist, Buster tugs on it a little. "Go ahead, boy."

"Thank you, Master," Tim murmurs. 

Sweet Jesus, Buster thinks as Tim's mouth moves down over the head of his dick. He should be thanking Tim instead other way around. It's an another odd thought and one that's easily dismissed because Tim's mouth is hot and tight and slick and fucking perfect around Buster's cock. And sure he could be cynical and remember that Establishment slaves are trained to give incredible head, but who wants to be cynical when you're on the receiving end of it.

"Fuck," Buster gasps as Tim goes all the way down. "That's a...fuck...good boy." He tugs a little harder on the leash and Tim moans and speeds up a little. 

"Fuck," Buster says again a few minutes later. "Fuck...stop." This is the point where he'd probably just let it happen if he was by himself, but no; he has other plans. Still, when Tim looks up, breathing hard and lips shiny, Buster decides that putting things off too much longer is stupid. 

Once he's got himself together, Buster gestures at one of the side tables. "Grab some lube," he says. "And then get up on the coffee table and get yourself ready for me."

Even as Tim obeys, he's blushing and sure, he blushed when Buster first looked him over, but that's to be expected. That his face is red now, while doing something he must have done hundreds of times, tells Buster plenty. Tim, he thinks, is almost too good to be true. 

Nevermind that Buster probably looks pretty silly himself--sitting on the sofa with a hard on and wearing essentially nothing--he leans back and watches Tim. Tim’s got his hand tucked behind his legs and the blush on his face gets darker as Buster continues to watch. 

"Really?" he says, in an echo of his words back in the showroom. Tim ducks his head and yes, he is hiding behind his hair as it falls round his face. It's oddly charming, but Tim needs to know he can't always get away with it. 

Buster slides off the sofa and crouches in front of Tim. The table is low, but he still has to reach up and push Tim's hair behind his ear. He only does it on one side, but it's enough; he can see Tim's face. 

"You look good like that," Buster says. "On display with your fingers up your ass."

"Thank you, Master," Tim says, his voice breathy and soft. His eyes drift shut, but Buster's okay with that. 

"It's almost like you want to get fucked. Almost like you're some kind of greedy slut." And then, because Tim doesn't have to answer a non-question, he says, "aren't you, boy?"

"Yes, Master," Tim says. He has to open his eyes to drip more lube on his fingers, and Buster can see him swallowing hard. "Your greedy slut, Master," he quickly adds, as he reaches down between his legs again. 

"Well, yeah. That's why I'm on this side of the leash," Buster says, grabbing hold of the leash. Tim catches his breath but his hand keeps moving. Buster gives him a moment or two more and then tugs on the leash. "Enough"

"Yes, Master." Tim puts his hands behind his back and waits. 

Now, Buster thinks, where's he going to fuck Tim? There's the bed, but the floor or over the back of the sofa would be good and would make a point. Not that he thinks he needs to make a point here and...sweet Jesus, why is he thinking this through so much? He shakes his head to clear it and gets to his feet. Tim's looking at him with a faintly curious look that changes into one of anticipation when Buster grabs the leash right under his collar. 

Tim catches his breath again, giving Buster an idea. He tugs the leash again. "Breathplay," he says. "Hard limit in your contract or not?" It's not a common hard limit, but it crops often enough that Buster feels like he should ask. 

"It's not, Master." 

"Good to know," Buster says. "God, you boys are such sluts."

Tim blushes again and it's not adorable or anything--Tim's not exactly an adorable boy--but it sure looks good. Buster tugs Tim up, using the leash to pull him up off his heels. Tim's eyes are wide and he leans in toward Buster a little. "Please, Master...."

"Please what?"

"Anything, Master. Please."

"That's why I bought you," Buster says. Keeping the leash in one hand, he reaches up with the other and grips Tim's jaw. "Anything I want, right, boy?"

"Yes, Master." 

Reaching back, Buster slaps Tim's face. Tim blinks and catches his breath and yeah, Buster already likes that tell. He slaps Tim again and then backhands him. Buster's not hitting anywhere near full strength, but it's still enough to bring up a red mark. Tim might bruise a little, but Buster doesn't think so. 

"Thank you, Master," Tim says. 

"Wasn't for you," Buster says, curious to see Tim's reaction to that. 

"Yes, Master," Tim says, opening his eyes. He smiles at Buster--that same almost, but not quite demure, little smile--and adds, "But thank you anyway, Master."

"Good boy," Buster says. "C'mon."

Somehow Tim manages to get off the coffee table without looking clumsy, even though Buster's hardly giving him any slack on the leash. It forces him to stand instead of kneel and, when Buster pulls hard on the leash, Tim leans in close. 

Buster looks at him for a long moment and then bends down just a little. Tim tilts his head up and murmurs, "Please, Master."

Before Tim can even finish speaking, Buster kisses him. It's not gentle; Buster wants to make it clear-- to both of them--that he's the Master here. He kisses Tim rough and deep, biting lips hard enough to bruise. By the time Buster pulls back, both of them are breathing hard and Tim's mouth is already swelling up a little. Buster's half tempted to have Tim blow him again, but, no, he really wants to fuck Tim right now.

"Bedroom," he says, pushing the handle of the leash into Tim's mouth again. "Crawl for me."

Buster was right earlier; Tim looks good crawling--slow enough for Buster to watch, but fast enough not to waste time, and very graceful. "Hope you like crawling, boy, because you'll be doing a lot of it." Buster pauses and then as they reach the bedroom, he says, "No never mind that, course a slut like you loves to crawl across the floor, especially if he thinks he's gonna get fucked."

Sure enough, Tim's blushing again when Buster tells him to kneel up on the bed. He watches as Buster pulls his shirt off, and again, Buster's pretty sure Tim likes what he sees. Buster doesn't know much about Tim's former owners, but he's pretty sure none of them were as fit as he is, unless they were gym bunnies or something. He's vain enough to feel a little smug about it.

"Okay," he says and then pauses to slap Tim's face again. "I wonder what you look like when you cry."

Tim looks like he wants to say something, so Buster takes the leash out of his mouth. "Please, Master," Tim says. "Please hurt me until you find out."

"Yeah, I don't think you need to worry too much about that." Buster reaches down and grips Tim's chin, turning his head. His cheek's still red but Buster was right--there won't be any bruises. "Trust me, you get all the hurt a boy like you needs."

Most slaves would say that it's not about what they need; Tim just murmurs, "Thank you, Master."

"But now," Buster says. "What you need is to get your slutty ass up on the bed."

"Yes, Master. How do...."

"Face down, ass up," Buster says. 

Tim looks good like this--on his elbows with his face on the pillow, his spine dipped and his ass up- and suddenly Buster wonders just how flexible he is. Walking around the bed, he looks Tim over again and he doesn't need to see Tim's face to be sure he's blushing. "Looks like you want something," Buster says as he reaches out and pats Tim's ass.

"Want to serve you, Master," Tim says, giving the proper answer this time. 

Buster settles on the bed behind Tim and pats him again. "Is that all?" he asks. He leans forward and presses up against Tim's ass. "Because I think you want this too. Don't you boy?"

Before Tim can answer, Buster rubs up against him, pressing his dick against Tim's ass. If he wasn't so impatient, he'd do this for a while, or lube Tim's thighs up and fuck him that way first.

"Please," Tim says, squirming again. "Please, Master, please fuck me?" When Buster doesn't say anything, Tim tries again. "Please? Please, Master."

"Hmmm," Buster says, like he doesn't want to just shove in and fuck Tim as hard as he can. "Do a better job of convincing me."

He's leaning over Tim, leaving him close enough to hear that little catch in Tim's breath. Then, just before Buster has to prompt him again, Tim goes down on one elbow and reaches back. One more quick squirm and then he's pulling his cheeks apart, spreading so Buster can fuck him.

"You blushing?" Buster asks as he slicks his dick up.

"Yes, Master."

f

"Still want it?"

"Oh God, Master. Yes please Master, please."

The nice thing about Tim holding himself open like this is the way Buster's able to watch as he slowly pushes his dick into Tim. Tim shudders, waiting even though he wants it--probably more than Buster does. 

"Hands out of the way," Buster says, once his cock's deep inside Tim's ass. "You're not going to come, are you?"

"No, Master," Tim says. He doesn't sound insulted, although he probably is. 

"Good boy. Now, no more talking."

Buster's done with taking it slow. Grabbing Tim's hips he yanks Tim back and shoves into him. Tim groans and then groans again as Buster sets up a hard, driving rhythm. Tim's moving with him now and oh fuck it's good. "Gonna do this," he gasps. "While you're hurting."

Tim moans and Buster can see his fingers digging into the bed. "Yeah...bet you'd like that...little slut." 

When Tim arches his back and pushes back a little harder, Buster takes a deep breath and pauses, looking down at Tim. Mine, he thinks. Leaning over Tim, he grabs a handful of Tim's hair and tugs on it. "Up. Hands...and knees."

After another sharp tug of Tim's hair while Tim pushes himself up into position, Buster takes a deep breath and starts fucking Tim again. He's slamming into Tim hard now, tugging on his hair with every rough thrust and it is so so good. The sounds Tim's making--harsh moans with the occasional choked off gasp when Buster yanks on his hair--get under Buster's skin.

"Mine," he snarls. "Tell me...."

"Master...yours...all yours." Tim's voice is rough and it breaks, almost like Buster's fucking the words right out of him. He keeps talking though, sounding increasingly desperate. "Yours...your boy...Master." Buster yanks hard on his hair and Tim yelps. "Yours...Master...please...'m yours."

With one last, low groan, Buster shoves into Tim and finally-- _finally _\--he can let go. It hits him hard, an intense sensation that feels like lightening crackling through his veins. Buster turns his head, muffling his wordless yell as it rips through him--an all over body feeling spreading from his center all the way to the top of his head. He's seeing sparks behind his closed eyes and all he can do, all he wants to do, is give in to it.__

__When he finally shudders through the last aftershocks, he feels totally boneless. With another muffled gasp, he lets go of Tim's hair and his hip before slumping down onto Tim's back. He can feel Tim move under him, but he remains on his hands and knees, bearing Buster's weight._ _

__"Down," Buster manages to say. Tim settles slowly onto his stomach, smoothly enough that Buster isn't jolted when Tim comes to rest on the bed. Resting his forehead on the back of Tom's neck, Buster stays for a long moment as his breathing slows. Tim's hair is sleek and silky against Buster's cheek; it smells faintly of oranges. Nice, Buster thinks vaguely._ _

__"Goddamn," he mumbles against Tim's shoulder a few moments later._ _

__Buster's not sure if the faint sound Tim makes is a snort of laughter or just his breath catching in his throat. After all, Tim still hasn't come yet and Buster can't help wondering if, when he finally does, it'll be as good as what Buster just went through. Probably, he thinks. He moves just a little and closes his teeth on Tim's shoulder._ _

__As Buster started biting and sucking his shoulder, Tim squirms under Buster. He's whining--a needy sound that makes Buster smile. "Mine," he says, before going back to work on the hickey._ _

__"Yours, Master," Tim says. "Your slave."_ _

__"Mmmm...." Buster raises his head and looks at the hickey. It's already visible--a dark red mark against Tim's pale skin. "I like the way you bruise."_ _

__"Very easily, Master._ _

__"That's good to know," Buster says, as he finally rolls off Tim. Tim immediately slides a little closer to edge of the bed. Grabbing a towel, he turns and offers it to Buster. "In fact," Buster says once he's cleaned up a little. "Every morning, after breakfast, I want you to get on your knees and beg for a mark."_ _

__"Yes, Master," Tim says, his voice a little shaky._ _

__"You sound like you want something."_ _

__"Please Master, I do." When Buster gestures for him to continue, Tim says, "Want to come, Master. Please?"_ _

__"On your knees next to the bed." Buster says. "I want to see it."_ _

__"Yes, Master. Do you want me to go slow, Master?"_ _

__"Nah," Buster says. "Do it like you would if you were alone."_ _

__"Yes Master."_ _

__Tim goes for it right away; he seems to like it fast, if the way his hand is moving is any indication. It's not long before his eyes begin to close. He fights it a little, his eyelids fluttering as he tries to keep them open._ _

__Oh yeah, Buster thinks. He's going to want to see that a whole lot more. Even when Tim loses the battle and his eyes close, he looks good--his attention turned inward and a dreamy little smile on his face. Buster's never had a boy who really did jerk off the way he would do it if alone. It feels oddly intimate, like Buster's seeing Tim the private person and not Tim the slave. He's not sure how he feels about that._ _

__"Please, Master. Please let me come, Master. Please?" Now Tim looks a little less lost in it and a lot more desperate, and that's a good look on him too. "Please, Master."_ _

__"Of course you want it," Buster says, leaning forward. Tim's face goes red and he shudders a little. "A slut like you? You probably want it all the time."_ _

__"I do, Master," Tim says. His voice is husky and he's obviously close. Buster thinks about saying no but decides against it. Not only does he want to see Tim come, he thinks Tim deserves it._ _

__Buster just looks at Tim for another few minutes, watching as Tim gets closer and closer. Tim's digging the fingers of his free hand into his thigh and he's biting his lip; Buster wonders what he's thinking about to keep from going over the edge._ _

__"Who do you belong to, boy?"_ _

__"You, Master...all yours...only you, Master..."_ _

__"You're a good boy," Buster says. "I want you to come for me now."_ _

__Tim might have been pretending he was alone earlier, but now he's clearly aware of his audience. Leaning back, he braces himself on his free hand and gives his dick one more hard stroke. It's a long, loud orgasm; Tim groans, "oh God," and "yours" and "Master" as he comes all over his stomach and chest._ _

__"Good boy," Buster says, once Tim's done. Tim's got come all over him, he's breathing hard and his face is flushed--if he'd looked like this in the showroom, Buster would have wanted him right off the bat._ _

__"Thank you, Master," Tim says. He reaches down, slides his finger across his stomach and then licks it clean, glancing at Buster with a demure expression that's exaggerated to the point of parody._ _

__"Slut," Buster says, using the same tone he used to tell Tim he was a good boy._ _

__"Thank you, Master."_ _

__They look at one another for a moment and now Tim really does belong to Buster; he's moved into that place in Buster's mind. The moment stretches out and then Buster takes a deep breath, trying to get back on track._ _

__"Shower," he says._ _

__Tim's good in the shower too; his fingers feel amazing running through Buster's hair and rubbing his scalp. Buster's hair is a little shaggy, but all of a sudden, he's thinking that he'll just get a trim instead of getting it all buzzed super short before Spring Training like he usually does._ _

__Once Tim's dried him off, Buster's suddenly aware of just how tired he is. It's been a very long day and, what with the Toyota ads he's got to shoot, it's going to be and even longer week. He's still got a few things to deal with, however._ _

__"Go get ready for bed, and then come back to the bedroom," he tells Tim._ _

__Buster's only had time to grab his iPad and get settled in bed before Tim comes in and kneels in the doorway. "When I tell you to come into the bedroom--any bedroom--I want you to kneel next to my side of the bed."_ _

__"Yes, Master."_ _

__Buster makes Tim wait while he logs into the network and checks his mail. There's nothing important or even interesting; He tosses the iPad aside and looks down at Tim._ _

__"All right," he says. "We're here for a week or so, but, aside from playing with Bum and Brandon sometime on Sunday, I don't have any plans for this weekend." He laughs as Tim's eyes go wide. "Yeah, Bum as in Bumgarner and Brandon as in Belt, not Crawford," he adds. "I'm looking forward to seeing those two shove you around."_ _

__Tim looks more nervous than interested, but before Buster can ask why, Tim says, "Please Master, I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you're talking about now, but it's related and it's something you really need to know."_ _

__"Go ahead."_ _

__Once given permission, however, Tim is silent for a moment. "Are you bringing me to Spring Training, Master?" he finally asks._ _

__"Of course I am," Buster says._ _

__"Then, Master, you need to know that...."_ _

__"I need to know what?" Buster asks when Tim trails off. He frowns; he's hardly spent any time with Tim, but but he's pretty sure this isn't typical behavior._ _

__"I'm sorry, Master," Tim says, bowing his head. "It's just...Sean Lincecum's my brother, Master."_ _

__"What?" Buster just stares at Tim for a long moment, not quite able to process what Tim just said. Slave's last names aren't listed in the catalog, but the information is in their file. Buster wasn't able to give Tim's file a lot of attention, but he's pretty sure he would have noticed that particular name._ _

__"I changed my name to my middle name, Master. It was...easier."_ _

__Buster keeps looking at Tim, comparing him to the big, hard throwing, Dodger pitcher Buster's faced all throughout his big league career. Going on looks alone, it's almost impossible to think that they're related, but there's no reason whatsoever for Tim to lie about something this weird._ _

__"Well," he finally says. "At least you're not a Kershaw."_ _

__Tim's head comes up and he looks at Buster for half a second before laughing. It's genuine and Buster can't help laughing with him._ _

__"I guess it could be worse, Master," Tim finally says. The smile fades from his face and he ducks his head again. "I'm sorry, Master. I should have told you right up front."_ _

__"Would you have?" Buster asks. "I mean if I'd looked you over in the showroom?" As soon as he says it, he wonders if that's one of those questions he shouldn't ask. He knows what not to talk about, what questions not to ask under normal circumstances, but this isn't exactly normal._ _

__"Once I saw you looking at boys, Master, I was trying to figure out how to tell you. It's not something that normally comes up and, of course, some buyers don't want to talk to slaves in the showroom."_ _

__"Really? That's stupid." Buster pauses, because he probably shouldn't have said that. "As far as I'm concerned, at least. Did you come up with a plan for telling me?"_ _

__"Yes, Master. Well, sort of. I thought I'd ask one of the attendants to get my trainer's attention. I figured he could tell you, Master."_ _

__"No wonder you looked so startled after the sale."_ _

__"That had nothing to do with Sean, Master. I was just surprised you bought me."_ _

__"Yeah, me too," Buster says. He turns the whole situation over in his mind, looking at Tim all the while. "Okay," he finally says. "I'm going to have to ask you something about...." He frowns as he tries to figure out how to say it. "About your life outside of the Establishment."_ _

__"I'm not very close to Sean, If that's what you're asking, Master."_ _

__"Lucky guess?"_ _

__"Yes, Master," Tim says with a rueful smile._ _

__"As far as I know, the only Dodger in the Establishment is Greinke and we mostly just nod at each other if we meet at a club."_ _

__Tim blinks. "He wouldn't have been my first guess, Master."_ _

__"I was pretty surprised," Buster says. "He's straight, though and I've only ever seen him play with his wife."_ _

__"I've never met him, Master. Or any of the team."_ _

__"Well, that's a plus. So you do know a fair amount about baseball?" It's not like Buster doesn't know Lincecum's story--how his dad taught him how to pitch and all that--and he wonders if Tim ever played any ball._ _

__It turns out he doesn't have to ask. "Yes, Master. I played in Little League for a while, but I never thought of making a career out of it." Tim's face is very carefully blank._ _

__Buster just nods. He knows that look, knows that they're at the point where Tim will clam up and give simple yes or no answers. He's curious, but it's not his place to ask questions. Masters, he thinks, are bound by rules too._ _

__"Well, that's a plus too," he finally says. "I don't think it will be a problem down in Arizona. I'm sure I can think of things you can do instead of watching when we play the Dodgers."_ _

__"Thank you, Master"_ _

__"For what?"_ _

__"For...making this easy, Master. For not being angry."_ _

__"If I was a Dodger, it'd be a problem. As it is, I've gotta say, it's kind of funny in a weird way."_ _

__"Yes, Master."_ _

__It takes a moment before Buster can remember what they were talking about before Tim's revelation. "Schedules and plans," he says. "I'll want to pick up a collar and a few other things tomorrow...oh, and we'll need to get you some clothes along with whatever else you need."_ _

__"Yes, Master."_ _

__"My morning routine changes all the time, but this weekend, I'm not even setting an alarm, so God only knows when I'll wake up. Unless I tell you otherwise, the first thing I want every morning is a cold coke. Not diet."_ _

__"Yes, Master."_ _

__A cold coke sounds good right now; Buster's even more tired than he thought. "Okay, that's enough for now; we'll deal with everything else in the morning." Tim looks like he has a question. "What am I forgetting?"_ _

__"Please, Master, where do you want me to sleep?"_ _

__"Oh, right. On the floor at the foot of the bed for now. Use the mattress and stuff that's under the bed--I want you to be comfortable."_ _

__"Thank you, Master."_ _

__Grabbing a pair of pajama pants out of the dresser, Buster turns back and watches Tim set up his bedding. Once he's done, he kneels and looks up at Buster._ _

__Buster looks him over. "You'll do," he says with a smile._ _

__Tim’s whole face lights up. “Thank you, Master,” he says. He looks up and smiles before bending down to rest his forehead on the carpet in front of Buster’s feet. “Master.”_ _

__Buster falls asleep to the soft sound of Tim’s breathing._ _


	2. Chapter 2

As usual, getting out of bed is the last thing Buster wants to do. Fuck it, he thinks after a bleary glance at the clock. After all, it’s only nine and none of his plans involve a schedule. Just as he rolls over to go back to sleep, however, his stomach growls. “Fuck this….” He sits up, rubbing his eyes and then all but rolls out of bed. He almost trips over Tim, who manages to get out of the way like he totally meant to do just that.

“Coke,” he mutters as he heads for the bathroom. “Also…’m not awake.”

“Yes, Master,” Tim says, his voice soft. 

When Buster leaves the bathroom a few minutes later, Tim is kneeling right outside. He hands Buster a bottle of Coke and then waits while Buster drinks about half of it in one gulp. “Fuck yeah,” Buster says and then blinks a little. “Need about twenty minutes…go do your morning stuff.”

The bed looks awfully inviting, even after that initial cold rush of sugar and caffeine. But he’s hungry and kind of horny—in other words, it’s a pretty normal morning. He makes the mistake of lying back when he sits on the bed, though, and once again, thinks about going back to sleep. Instead, he lies there looking at the ceiling until Tim comes back into the bedroom.

“Get over here and blow me,” Buster says, sitting up and shoving his pajama pants down.

Grabbing a handful of Tim’s hair, Buster doesn’t give him a chance to show off much. He’s still half-asleep, grumpy and he wants to get off, so he just shoves Tim's head down. With a muffled groan Tim keeps his head still while Buster fucks up into his mouth. It’s good—exactly what Buster needs right now—and it’s not long before he’s close to coming. He’s not the least bit interesting in holding back this morning and it’s easy enough to let himself go over the edge.

When Buster lets go of Tim’s hair, Tim looks up. His lips are shiny and there are tears in the corners of his eyes and, sure, he doesn’t have the conventionally handsome face of Buster’s other boys, but damn, he looks good. After a shaky breath, Buster leans down and runs his thumb over Tim’s lips. “Nice,” he says. 

“Thank you, Master.”

“Bathrobe and the room service menu,” Buster says. 

"Yes, Master."

Once wrapped in his bathrobe, Buster glances at the room service menu. “Three eggs over easy, biscuits and gravy, four turkey sausages and a large orange juice. And whatever you want.” He flops back on the bed again and stares at the ceiling. The good thing about getting an early morning blow job is the mood boost; the bad thing is that it makes him want to go back to sleep. Then again, everything except the Coke makes him want to go back to sleep. 

“Master?” Tim asks, his voice soft.

Buster blinks a little. He can smell food, but didn’t Tim just call the order in? “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yes, Master. Do you want me to wake you later?”

“No, I should eat. You may have noticed that I’m not exactly a morning person.”

Tim doesn’t say anything, just smiles. Buster’s seen that smile more than once since he bought Tim and he finds it interesting—almost like Tim is laughing at some private joke. Like the angel wing pictures, Buster thinks. Or maybe he's laughing at Buster for stating the obvious. Whatever, Buster thinks. He supposes he’s kind of funny at times and as long as Tim doesn’t flat out laugh at him, he really doesn’t care. 

“Okay, I think I’m awake…finally,” he says, as Tim lays out his breakfast on the coffee table. 

"Good morning, Master," Tim says, looking a little surprised when Buster squats down on the floor in front of the table.

"I need to keep my legs in shape, especially in the off season," Buster says with a smile. "You'll see me down on the floor fairly often. I watch TV like this too." He glances at the cart, which is still loaded with dishes. "Join me."

Tim's breakfast is as big as Buster's and just like that Buster realizes something about last night. "Fuck, I'm so sorry for not letting you eat last night. That's not..." He's not going to say it to Tim--that this isn't like him. He'd also like to apologize more, but all he says is, "You must be starving."

"I'm all right, Master." Tim eats a couple bites of waffle and then glances at Buster. "If it had gotten too bad...we have ways of mentioning it."

"Yeah," Buster, nodding. "My first boy had to teach me how to do all this. He was very tactful." He's not sure why he said that, but Tim just nods.

"Anyway," Buster adds, "I eat a lot, so you won't miss meals very often."

"Do you have staff aside from me, Master?"

"Not at the moment," Buster says. "My last boy usually did the cleaning, but it's a bg place and I didn't buy you to mop floors if you don't want to. Also...." He frowns a little. "I really need to take an hour or so to read your file. Do you cook?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good. I'm not super strict about what I eat, but I don't eat like this, during the season." He says, gesturing to his plates. "We'll talk about menus at some point." 

Tim bows his head and they settle down to breakfast. The biscuits and gravy are pretty good, for LA, and the orange juice is fresh-squeezed. Given his membership dues, Buster thinks, the food, even the room service food, should be good.

"Better," Buster says, once he's finally finished his breakfast off.

Almost as soon as Buster puts his fork down, Tim goes down--his forehead on the floor. For a minute, Buster's confused. Oh right, the order he gave last night. "Well?"

"Please, Master, will you put a mark on me? Please, Master?"

"Kneel up."

Once Buster's crouched down behind Tim, he leans in and presses his mouth against Tim's neck, right where it meets his shoulder. "Ask again," he says, his lips moving against Tim's skin.

Tim shivers and says, "Please please, Master. Please mark me."

Tim's skin is warm and he smells a little like coffee, like morning--an absurd thought that's not like Buster at all. He doesn't waste any time biting and sucking up a nice, big, hickey on Tim's neck. At first Tim just shivers, but then he starts squirming and, oh yeah, that's nice. Buster makes a mental note to put Tim on his lap when they do this tomorrow.

This isn't something he's done before. He usually does something that's going to mark his boy up everyday, but he's glad he had the idea to make it a habit. He'll make Tim mark himself up when they're apart, he thinks. Make him film himself doing it.

By the time Buster's finished, there's a nice, red-purple bruise on Tim's neck. Reaching out, he presses on it and watches as Tim squirms again. "You should always be bruised," Buster says, before getting to his feet. 

"Thank you, Master," Tim says.

Tim stays on his knees for maybe five seconds before getting up to clear off the table. He's better than most waiters--silent, efficient and fast. For some strange reason, Buster's always wondered if it's harder to learn all the service stuff as opposed to the the kinky stuff. Or maybe that's just because he'd be crappy at it and he sure as fuck wouldn't make it looks as good. 

His next thought is that Tim needs some clothes.

Although Buster remembers leaving his phone on the sofa last night, it's sitting on the edge of the coffee table with his wallet and keys. His clothes and shoes are gone, though. It's not surprising. Tim's probably made time to go through the closets and dresser to see what Buster has with him and where it all is.

By the time Tim puts the service cart out into the hallway, Buster's settled on the sofa, phone in hand. "All right," he says, once Tim's kneeling at his feet. "Let's talk about shopping. You need some clothes. And all your grooming stuff, too."

"Speaking of which, Master, do you want me to wear makeup?"

"Yeah. Not too much unless I tell you otherwise." He leans back and looks at Tim. "I want you to dress well when you go out, but other than that, I'll leave your style up to you. You certainly don't have to dress like a good ol' boy."

"Yes, Master. I could buy...could get just a few things and see if you approve." 

"Sounds good," Buster says. "And look, we both know that everything you have, you get from me, so don't worry too much about your wording."

"Yes, Master," Tim says. 

"Speaking of getting things from me...." Buster leans forward to grab his wallet. "Here," he says, handing a card to Tim. "Pre-paid with more than enough to get what you need. I'll buy you a phone and the rest as soon as I can.

"I need to check, but I think I'm having dinner with the guys. Either way, I won't need you before...say six-thirty. Get yourself something to wear from the staff and then take the rest of the day to go shopping."

"Yes, Master." Tim looks down at the card in his hand. "Thank you, Master."

"Go on then," Buster says. Then, just as Tim reaches the door, Buster remembers where they are. "Oh, and it's okay if you're late because of traffic or whatever."

"Thank you, Master.

Tim's file, Buster thinks as the door closes behind Tim. Call Bum. Do some shopping of his own. Work out. Maybe get a nap in--he tends to sleep a lot during the off season. Intellectually he knows he can't store it up like some kind of bear or something, but it always feels that way. 

And hour later, he puts his iPad aside and thinks about what he just read. For the most part, Tim seems to be...well, it's hard to call anyone who essentially sells themselves into sexual slavery for years at a time typical, but there's nothing really unusual in his file. 

Okay, maybe the tickling thing is a little different. It's an interesting way to punish someone and the more Buster thinks about it, the more he likes it. Not that he really anticipates having to punish Tim much, given Tim's experience. Tim's been with the Establishment longer than Buster expected, even given his five prior sales. It seems he takes time between sales and refresher training to work in the clubs themselves, either as a house slave or as a DJ. All in all, he's been with the Establishment for almost ten years.

So, Buster thinks, it's not about the money. Tim goes for good money, as Buster has reason to know. In fact, Buster went over-budget to buy him, to the point of getting into a bit of a bidding war with a woman at the end of the sale. Bum told him he was being too competitive, which is pretty ridiculous coming from him. Still, maybe he was right. 

If it's not the money, though, he wonders why Tim's stuck with it so long. Even as he finishes the through, he shakes his head. God knows he doesn't need to play ball once his contract's up, but as long as he's still in good shape, he'll sign again. It's what he does, what he knows. And, when he thinks about it, Tim's been with the Establishment as longer than Buster's been in pro ball, so maybe it's what he does. What he knows.

Buster can't help wondering if he'd have bid on Tim if he'd known he was Lincecum's brother. Lincecum's got a little ownage on Buster as it is; it'll be weird to face him now that Buster owns Tim. Puts a whole new meaning on that thing Kruk says--ownage is ownage. 

His phone plays the first few bars of "Fire on the Mountain".

"Hey."

"You're awake this early?" Bum asks.

"No. You're talking to a person who's asleep."

"Funny. How is he?"

"Good, like, really good." Buster can't help smiling as he says it.

"So you're not regretting it?"

"Not at all. He's...he's different. I like it."

"Huh."

"So, how was the party?" Buster asks when Bum doesn't say anything more. He's heard that "huh" before and it usually means that Bum's figured something out about Buster that Buster doesn't know. Of course, sometimes it just means Bum's messing with him.

"Fun." Instead of telling Buster about it in detail, Bum pauses again. "We were talking afterwards 'bout maybe buying a boy of our own, though. Have someone around all the time, instead of just playing with random house boys at clubs."

"You gonna wait 'til the Fall Auction or go for a private sale?"

"We were thinking the Spring Auction."

"Dude, isn't that right after the season starts?"

"Nah, it's just before it. And we want someone to do all that crap your boys do for you. Besides the sex. Ya know, the packing and all that shit."

Buster wants to tell Bum to wait, but it's not really his business. Hopefully they'll end up with someone like Derek, someone who can subtly teach them how things work. "It's pretty nice to have someone do that for you," is all he says. 

"You can try to talk us out of it at dinner," Bum says. 

"No I...."

"Yeah, you will."

Bum, Buster thinks as they end the call, knows him way too well. 

Tim's not the only one who needs to do some shopping. Buster needs a whole new set of restraints fit to Tim's measurements, maybe a couple things for Tim to wear around the house, and, of course, Tim's collars. And maybe a new toy or too, if he sees anything interesting. 

"Feathers," he says aloud. It's funny--Buster's never been into tickling that much, but now he kind of wants to tickle Tim just for fun. Well, his own fun, he thinks with a smile. He tries not to do stuff his boys actively loathe, but there's something about making someone get off on something that isn't even their kink.

I'm kind of an asshole, Buster thinks, not for the first time.

Buying restraints is easy--he can put in an online order to the Establishment leather shop specifying what he wants, what color he wants it in and Tim's ID number and that's all it takes. They'll be busy down there, of course, but there are plenty of generic, one-size fits most, restraints here in the room and in the playrooms downstairs. Buster can wait a few days for the fitted stuff.

He can't wait on collars though. He needs to lock something around Tim's neck as soon as he can. Buster would prefer not to have his boys wear those subtle collars that look more like regular jewelry, but of course, they have to, at least part of the time. He likes his boys to go to games, but his rotating cast of "boyfriends" is already a bit of a joke; he's not sure what people would make of someone in an obvious collar. 

Scrolling through the various types of collars, Buster gets a bit of a surprise when he looks at the second page of posture collars. There's Tim looking back at him, his neck completely encased in red leather overlaid with black in some pattern Buster can't make out. It's much more over the top than Buster likes, but it looks amazing on Tim, though. Buster adds it to his cart. The catalog helpfully informs him that, not only are there matching cuffs, but other leather gear as well. Again,most f the clothes are not at all Buster's thing, but there's a pair of black pants with the red and black leather work running down each side. Tim's modeling those too and...okay, fine, Buster thinks and adds wrist cuffs and pair of the pants. He'll want more leather for Tim, but he kind of wants to see him in a few things before he makes his decision. 

He still needs a regular collar for Tim, though, and he turns his attention back to the task at hand, scrolling through leather, metal and chain and suddenly...there it is. 

Buster's never been one for chainmail collars because he thinks they usually look cheap, but this one is just about perfect. It's a thick rope of black chainmail with a small, discreet locking closure in the back--a screw closure, which is the only real flaw. Instead of a ring in front, there's what looks like a heavy piece of piercing jewelry, a round open ring finished off with points. He's a little concerned about that; do the points unscrew like piercing jewelry does? Turns out they don't and the matching leash has a clip too thick to slide out of the open ring. 

The more Buster looks at it, the more he's convinced it's the right collar. The tiny screwdriver fits into a cylinder he can wear on his key ring and, even better, Tim can wear this collar all the time, including in public. The matching cuffs are more standard--the same black chainmail rope with O rings instead of the open ring. He picks up some linking chains too and, after a moment's thought, a locking belt as well. 

With a sigh of relief, Buster fills in all the right information, pays for everything, arranges to pick up the collar later that afternoon, and, _finally_ , he's done. Oh, he'll buy some toys before they head up to San Francisco, but he's taken care of the important stuff.

* * *

Buster spends the rest of the morning and early afternoon in the gym. He's not at all surprised to find Bum and Brandon there as well, horsing around and trying to compete with each other in addition to working out. They're surprisingly goofy for two guys who are utterly dedicated to their jobs and serious as hell on the field. Although he'd never say anything, Buster thinks Brandon's been good for Bum. He's better than anyone, even Buster, at defusing Bum's anger during games without taking Bum's edge away.

"Mr. Serious is in the house," Brandon says. 

Buster just rolls his eyes and gets on with it. After a little more teasing from Bum, who tells him for, like, the hundredth time, that he's no fun at all, they leave him alone. He's never really liked working out with people he knows; everyone always ends up wasting so much damn time. 

And sure enough, Brandon's still lifting by the time Buster's done. Buster watches for a few minutes; Brandon looks like he bulked up a little in the offseason and Buster's wondering what that's going to do for his velocity.

Suddenly Buster wants to be in Scottsdale with all the commercial shoots and Fan Fest behind him. Except for Cainer, it's the same rotation that won it all last year and having Cainer back will make it better. Buster wants to be working with them all right now, trying to figure out who needs to work on mechanics and who just needs to build up their strength. And then there are the new guys-the kids and the non-roster invitees to look over, plus he's got to sit down with Rags and Boch and figure out which baby pitcher he's going to work with this year. 

The offseason's just too long, he thinks, even though 2013 proved that maybe it can be too short. But fuck 2013; this year they're not coming in tired and cocky. This year they'll prove that the even/odd year thing is pure bullshit and he's ready to get to it. This year.

"Hey," Bum nudges him with his shoulder "Stop staring at my man."

Buster wasn't really staring at Brandon; more like staring through him. "Sue me," he says. "You've got good taste."

"Hey, babe, Buster thinks you're hot," Bum says as Brandon finishes and comes over to join him. 

"Because I am," Brandon says.

"I wouldn't go as far as 'hot,'" Buster says at the same time.

Later, after Brandon takes off for the pool and Bum wanders off somewhere, Buster grabs lunch at the little cafe on the fourth floor. He can't even get through soup and a sandwich without yawning. Jet lag maybe, or all the stress of an Auction. Or maybe he just likes to sleep. It's only three; Tim won't be back until six at the earliest and all Buster has left to do is pick up the collar.

* * *

"Mmmmpf...." Buster mutters as he fumbles to turn off his alarm. It's easier to wake up after a nap; he's able to sit up and look around fairly quickly. 

Even as Buster rubs the sleep from his eyes, Tim comes into the room. "Master," he murmurs as he kneels by the bed. "Would you like a coke or some water?"

"You made it back before six?" Buster asks, which wow, way to state the obvious, Posey. "In LA traffic?"

"I had a very adventurous Uber driver on the way back, Master."

"I hate driving here and doing it as a job...no thanks," Buster says. "You drive, right?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good." Buster rubs his eyes again and gets out of bed. "Coke," he says.

"Yes, Master."

One Buster's finished half his coke, he looks over at Tim and catches him glancing at the flat, matte black, box on the coffee table. Blushing, he ducks his head as Buster looks at him. Because he wants it? Buster wonders. Or because he got caught looking? 

"Okay," Buster says. He crosses his arms across his chest and looks down at Tim for a long moment. Tim looks up at him, his lips slightly parted, his face eager. He must have done his eyes at some point and God, Buster suddenly wants him so bad. 

Reaching down, he grabs Tim's arm and hauls him to his feet. Tim may have more muscle that you'd expect, but he's still lighter than anyone Buster's ever played with. It's easy to drag him around behind the sofa and shove him over it. If Buster's breathing hard after, well, so's Tim and it's not from exertion. 

He leaves Tim where he is and steps around the sofa. The box is a typical necklace box, lined with red velvet so the black chain of the collar really shows. He hears Tim catch his breath again when Buster opens the box and he wonders what Tim was expecting.

After a quick trip to the bedroom to grab a few things, Buster steps up behind Tim. He slaps Tim's ass and then says, "stand up and turn around."

"Yes, Master."

Tim's hard, of course, and his eyes are wide and focussed on Buster. He shivers a little when Buster rubs a thumb across his nipple and then winces when Buster attaches the clamp. Buster gets another wince and a soft little moan as he attaches the second one. "Hurts doesn't it?" Buster asks as he puts a lead weight on the chain between the clamps.

"Yes, Master." 

"And you like it." 

"Yes, Master." And then, as if he knows what Buster's next question. "Because I'm a slut for it, Master."

Buster laughs and looks Tim over before reaching out and tugging on the weight. "How much of a slut for it?" Buster asks. He tucks his thumb in the belt he put on just a minute ago. "Nah, never mind. I'll find out on my own."

"Yes, Master," Tim says softly, his eyes on Buster's belt.

"And now," Buster says, grabbing Tim's arm. He turns Tim around and shoves him over the back of the sofa again. "Keep your hands on the cushions and look at that collar."

Even as Tim gets settled, Buster's unbuckling his belt, making sure the sound is audible. He's never played with an Establishment slave who didn't love that sound. Come to think of it, Buster's pretty fond of it too. "Oh yeah," he mutters to himself.

Tim yelps a little as the belt lands on his ass and Buster gets that feeling in his stomach, like he's about to go over the top and then into the drop on a roller coaster. He hasn't played with anyone--hasn't seriously hurt anyone--for weeks and while it's not like he needs it, he wants it. Looking down at the broad, red, belt mark on Tim's ass, Buster smiles and brings the belt down again.

The curve and swirls of black ink on Tim's back frame his ass, but don't cover it. Instead, it emphasizes the danger zone of Tim's lower back and while Buster doesn't really need a reminder to not hit Tim there, he appreciates the visuals. 

As Buster really gets going, as the belt's landing on Tim's ass hard and fast, Tim gets louder. Soon enough, Buster's caught up in that feedback loop he loves--the more he hurts Tim, the more Tim reacts, and the more Tim reacts, the more Buster wants to hurt him. Buster's not doing anything complicated or even all that dangerous, which makes it easier to just slam the belt down over and over again while Tim stops groaning and starts yelling. 

Tim's ass is dark red and welted when Buster finally gets what he wants--Tim shudders and then his whole body relaxes as he gives in to it. Buster slows it down then, pausing between each hard blow to listen as Tim's hoarse yells turn into sobs. Tim's shoulders are shaking a little, but still got his head up. Knowing that he's still looking at the collar even as he cries is more than enough for Buster. He slams the belt down on Tim's ass one last time and then tosses it onto the sofa next to Tim's hand.

"C'mon, get those legs spread for me," Buster says, nudging one of Tim's ankles and then the other with his foot. 

"Yes, Master." Tim's voice is husky and his breath catches loudly in his throat when Buster pushes a couple slicked up fingers into him. "Oh God...."

"Want something, boy?"

"Yes, Master. Please, Master, please?"

"Please what?" Buster asks, twisting his fingers hard.

"Fuck me, Master? Please please?"

Buster pushes slowly inside Tim, waiting until his cock's buried deep in Tim's ass before he bends over Tim's back. "Keep your eyes on that collar while I fuck you," he murmurs in Tim's ear.

"Yes...yes, Master," Tim says, rocking back just a little. 

"You boys are so fucking easy," Buster says. He grabs Tim's hips and starts fucking him nice and slow. He loves fucking boys who've just been spanked; Tim's tight and hot and slick around Buster's dick and the little gasps he makes every time Buster's hips press against his ass are driving Buster crazy.

It doesn't take long before those gasps and whimpers grow increasingly desperate. "Oh God...." Tim moans. "Please please please, Master. Please!"

"Please what?" Buster asks, fighting to keep his own voice steady. 

"Wanna be good...good for you, Master," Tim manages to get out. 

It's kind of a surprise and Buster goes still. "You're good," Buster says. "A." He leans over Tim's back, reaching under him tug on one of the nipple clamps. That's all the warning he gives Tim before pulling first one and then the other clamp off. 

Tim yells--a not-quite scream that makes Buster catch his breath. He wants more of that, wants to hear Tim really scream, but there will be time for that later. For now, he rests his hand on the back of Tim's neck. "You wanna come for me, boy?"

"Please...oh fuck, please, Master!" 

"Yeah?" Buster starts fucking Tim again, hard and fast this time. "Lemme hear...more."

"Please...please let me come...please Master, please?" Tim is pushing back against Buster just as hard as Buster's fucking him and in between his pleas, he's making those choked-off moans and this...this is what Buster wants. Tim's hurting and so turned on he's begging for it, and he's still holding back because Buster wants him to. 

"Mine," Buster says, tightening his grip on the back of Tim's neck. "All mine."

"Yours, Master...all yours...your slave...please please please, Master." 

"You want.. that collar, slave?"

"Oh God, yes, Master. Please please please...collar me, please?"

Buster makes Tim beg for a few moments more, but it's winding him up as much as it is Tim and finally, he's had enough. "Go on, boy," he gasps. "Come for me."

With a rough cry, Tim pushes back against Buster and comes hard. Knowing that Tim's probably fighting to keep his eyes open, looking at the collar he wants so much, is more than enough for Buster. As he goes over the edge, he digs his fingers into the back of Tim's neck and his hip.

Afterwards, Buster feels almost hollow, but in a good way. "Good boy," he says, bending down to kiss the back of Tim's neck. 

"Thank you, Master," Tim says softly. 

"Now," Buster says as he begins to think a little more clearly. "Let's get rid of this." He unbuckles the temporary collar and lets it fall off Tim's neck to the sofa below. Tim's neck looks weirdly bare like that and Buster's more than ready to do something about that.

"Okay, you can stop looking at it now." Buster finally pulls out and steps away from Tim. "Go kneel next to the coffee table."

"Yes Master."

Buster deals with his jeans and steps around the sofa. "Head up," he says, picking up the collar before standing right in front of Tim.

"Yes, Master," Tim says. He lifts his head and Buster swallows hard. Whatever Tim uses on his eyes must be partly waterproof; there's a dark smudge of something under each eye, but it's not running down his face. The bruises from last night and this morning are nice and dark, and Tim's still breathing hard. Buster's not sure how he manages to look sated and sex-drugged while still looking needy, but he does. And, Buster thinks, he's all mine.

"Please," Tim says. It's his privilege to start this whole thing and he sounds utterly sincere. "This boy begs to wear his Master's collar."

Buster usually doesn't make a big production of it when he collars a slave. It's important to be serious, to make the moment meaningful for both himself and his new boy, but he doesn't tend to go too over the top. And though he doesn't now, his words are a little different than usual.

"Yes," he says. "You deserve to wear my collar."

It's exactly the right thing to say; Tim's whole face lights up and he smiles broadly. "Thank you, Master."

Reacting to the same impulse that caused him to say something unusual, Buster reaches down, holding the collar right in front of Tim's mouth. He can hear the breath catching in Tim's throat as Tim leans forward and presses his lips to the ring on front of the collar. 

Crouching down behind Tim, Buster pauses. "Hair up," he says. It's odd to see a boy holding his hair up the way girls do when they're being collared, but Buster likes it. Then again, he pretty much likes everything about Tim so far.

The collar has a nice weight to it; Tim won't be able to forget about it, although Buster suspects he'd remember it even if he couldn't feel it. He can feel it now, though and he shivers as Buster settles it around his neck.

"Mine," Buster says once the collar's locked around Tim's neck. "My boy. My slave."

"Yours, Master. Your boy. Your slave."

They stay that way for a moment or two, Buster's hands on Tim's shoulders. Tim's his and Buster's hurt him and fucked him and last night he used him to get off. Now, he sits back and pulls Tim onto his lap, wrapping his arms around him. This is part of it too, a part Buster enjoys just as much as hurting his boys. "If you ever need something, you know, after a scene, tell me." Then, before Tim can answer, he adds, "I mean it."

"Yes, Master," Tim says. He turns a little in Buster's arms and rests his head on Buster's shoulder. "Thank you, Master." Turns out there are advantages to having a slave who's smaller than yourself, Buster thinks. He settles down and holds Tim closer, pressing his lips against Tim's hair.

Buster's not sure how long they've been sitting there when he finally speaks again. "I'm glad I bought you," he murmurs.

"So am I, Master," Tim says, equally quietly. "So am I."

* * *

For all that they goof around so much, Bum and Brandon aren't complete clowns. Dinner is spent talking baseball--trades, signings, who supposedly won the offseason, how much they don't care about who supposedly won the offseason and all the rest of it. They don't talk much about last year; like Buster they're both more interested in the coming season. 

He's not sure what Tim makes of all of it. He'd intended to let Tim stay up in the room; give him a chance to rest up and have something to eat. But when they got out of the shower, Buster discovered he wanted Tim with him. After making sure Tim wasn't hungry--"I had a big lunch while I was out, Master"--he'd told him to put on a pair of pants, clipped a leash to Tim's collar and led him downstairs.

Tim, it turns out, likes skinny jeans worn low on his hips. He looks good and Buster's not the only one who thinks so. When they'd walked up to the table, Brandon had looked Tim over. "Nice," he said to Buster.

When Buster said, "I think so."

Now, a glass of wine and some Jack later, Buster's feeling mellow. "Fuck even year bullshit," he says raising his glass.

"Fuck it," Bum says. Brandon echoes him and they all toss back the last of their drinks.

"You guys have plans?"

"Going to the movies," Bum says. "American Sniper, right, babe?"

"You haven't seen it yet?"

"When?" Brandon asks. "I've spent the last couple weeks up in Bum fuck...oh sorry. Bumtown."

"Ya don't like it, Kyle, you can just stick to the bright lights of Lufkin."

Brandon makes a big show of ignoring Bum. "You wanna come with us?"

Buster's not sure why Brandon asks; he never goes to the movies with them unless there's something he specifically wants to see. Brandon, on the other hand, will watch just about anything if it's on the big screen and popcorn is involved. Bum goes along with it, although Brandon complains that Bum falls asleep in theaters all the time.

"Nah," Buster says. He slides a hand across Tim's shoulder and pushes down on one of the big hickeys he left there. "I've got other plans," he adds as Tim moans softly.

"Man, we gotta get us a boy," Bum says.

Brandon opens his mouth and then closes it again. 

"You'll get the extension," Buster says. 

"We'll see," Brandon says.

Buster half expects Bum to make one of his jokes about how cheap Brandon is, but instead he reaches out and slides his fingers between Brandon's. Buster glances down at Tim and tugs on his hair a little. He may never buy a boy with short hair again, Buster thinks as Tim looks up at him.

"Master?" he asks softly.

"Nothing," Buster says with another tug. "Just playing with it."

"Out of context baseball," Brandon says.

"Last I looked, this wasn't a dugout."

"Whatever," Brandon says, looking at his watch. "Hon, we've gotta go ."

"C'mon," Buster says to Tim once they've said their goodbyes. "Let's go shop some more."

Buster always thinks he's got all he needs in the way of toys and then, once he starts looking around the Establishment toy store, he inevitably finds something he wants. This time it's a narrow paddle--just a smooth, highly polished length of gorgeous wood with a metal hand guard instead of a handle. It's one of those things Establishment craftspeople do so well, functional, attractive and very expensive. The wood is sustainably sourced according to the tag and all Buster can think is, "of course it is."

He still hands it to Tim, who looks it over almost as intently as Buster did. "Tools of the trade," Buster says.

"Yes, Master. It's pretty."

"Gonna make pretty marks too."

"I hope so, Master."

There's a flogger Buster likes the look of too--braided linen cord with gold beads above the knots at the end. "Turn around," he tells Tim after making sure there's no one very close to them. "Give me a number," he says. 

He doesn't hit Tim with anywhere near full strength, but the flogger brings up thin red lines on Tim's back and he gasps. "Five, Master."

"Huh...that bad?"

"It stings, Master."

"The older I get," Buster says. "The more I appreciate toys designed for maximum hurt with minimum effort."

"Yes, Master," Tim says with that little smile of his.

Once again, Buster's not sure if he's being laughed at or not. It should be annoying, but it's not. At least Tim's smiling and not upset that Buster mentioned age--given that Tim's older than Buster is and his job is probably just as hard physically as Buster's, it might not have been the most tactful thing Buster's ever said. Not that he'd know if Tim was upset, but hopefully the smile means he isn't.

"Okay, I'll take this too."

"Should I get a basket, Master?"

"Because I don't have enough of this stuff at home," Buster says, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, why not?"

"Yes, Master."

By the time Buster thinks he's done, he's added a big, polished stone butt plug and a pair of pretty nipple clamps--the decorative kind he's never bothered with. They're designed more for looks than sensation, but Buster thinks, why not?

"Okay, I think that's enough for...."

The ostrich feather is ridiculous. Easily two feet long, with a heavy silver handle, it is an absolutely absurd luxury item in a room full of absurd luxury items. Buster rarely blinks at Establishment prices, but almost three grand? For a feather?

Buster's never been one for hanging a cane or a whip in his boy's room as a reminder to behave or else. It's one of those traditional things people do even though Establishment slaves rarely need that kind of encouragement. Now though, he looks at this stupid feather and then at Tim, who looks like he knows exactly what Buster's thinking. 

"Pick a color," Buster says, because if you're gonna be an asshole, you might as well go all the way.

Tim cocks his head and looks at the feathers--pale pink, black and white. "Black, if it pleases you, Master."

"Okay," Buster says, picking out a black feather. "There's no guarantee I'll use it, you know," he adds. "If I decide you need punishing, I might just beat the fuck out of you."

"Yes, Master," Tim says, bowing his head. 

Buster looks at him for a moment. "I think that's it for me. I'm going to go next door and look at clothes and you're going to sign for all this stuff. Before you do, I want you to pick one or two things that you think I should have."

"Master?" Tim actually looks a little startled, which pretty much echoes what Buster's feeling right now. This isn't like him at all. Oh, he's had boys pick things out of the toy collection at home, but he's never done anything like this. 

"I mean it. Something you like or something you think I'd like or whatever. Make sure I can use at least one of the things you pick to hurt you." 

"Yes, Master. Thank you very much, Master."

"Before I go, though...," Buster pushes the handle of the leash between Tim's lips. "Once you're done, have everything sent up to the room and then join me next door."

Tim bows his head and Buster pats him on the cheek before heading out the door. The staff is used to dealing with gagged or silenced slaves; Tim won't have any problems making himself understood. 

Buster's not sure what he's looking for amongst all the leather and lingerie and costumes. Of course, Tim already has clothes, but this particular shop doesn't exactly carry steet wear. Tim should have a pair of leather pants aside from the black and red pair, Buster thinks. Of course, Buster probably needs a new pair too, but given his ass and thighs, he has to have them custom made and getting measured is a pain. Maybe later this week, he tells himself. 

Buster doesn't have a plan and even though it's Auction Weekend, the store's not that crowded, so he just wanders a little. He doesn't like shopping for himself, but it's a little different when it's kinky. Like most things, he thinks.

At first he only idly glances at the lingerie. While there were those pictures in the catalog featuring Tim in lingerie, Buster's not sure if he likes the idea. Still, there's a set made of dark green satin edged in black lace that Buster likes the look of. Maybe he'll just buy a pair of the panties and see how that goes.

The real problem is figuring out what he wants Tim to wear at home. The jeans Tim has on are nice and they look good on him, but Buster wants something a little more intimate looking, at least when it's not completely freezing. Buster tends to keep the house on the warm side, but San Francisco gets pretty cold. He'll need to remember to tell Tim to get some sweats, or maybe some flannel pants. His mind goes from there to imagining Tim wearing a pair of soft worn flannel pants that hang off his hips and well, now he knows what he wants Tim to wear.

He doesn't think he's likely to find flannel pj pants here, although, with the Establishment, you never know. He doesn't find anything when he looks around, but there are a couple pairs of loose linen lounging pants that look promising. 

By the time Tim joins him, empty handed with the handle of the leash still in his mouth, Buster's picked a couple pairs of pants and is looking at the leathers. 

"Oh good," Buster says, handing his basket over to Tim. "I need to find you a pair of leather pants...."

* * *

"So how much do you really know about baseball?" Buster asks, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. Tim's in the middle of pouring Buster a drink and, at Buster's words, his shoulders tense up. "I'm not saying you were lying to me or that you should have told me when we had that first conversation."

"Yes, Master," Tim says. If he's still upset with himself, he hides it well. 

"Settle down here in reach," Buster says, once Tim's handed him the glass of bourbon. "You can sit or kneel, either's okay."

"Yes, Master." Tim waits until Buster's got a hand on his shoulder before answering Buster's question. "I'm not a stat head, Master, but I do know a lot about the game itself."

"I figured." Buster pauses because this is still some pretty weird, and new, territory. "Look...will it bother you, personally, to talk about baseball?" 

"Not at all, Master," Tim says. There's no tension in his voice or shoulders; if he's lying, he's doing a damn good job of it. Buster's pretty sure he's not, though. "I don't know, Master, if you want to tell Mr. Belt and Mr. Bumgarner I'm Sean's brother or not, but I..." He pauses, obviously searching for the right word. "I wouldn't mind if you did." 

"I'm pretty sure we'd be getting into a weird, legal, gray area there, so I wasn't planning on it." Buster rubs his thumb over one of the bruises on Tim's shoulder. "Thanks, though."

"Yes, Master," Tim says with a little shiver.

"So what do you think of the Padres getting Shields?" Buster asks after a sip of his bourbon.

"I don't know about any other team, Master, but I watched the World Series. I don't think the Giants have anything to worry about."

"Be fair," Buster says, laughing. "He might have won Game Five if Bum hadn't pitched."

"If you say so, Master," Tim says with a small laugh of his own.

"How about a rule here? You can argue with me all you want over baseball."

"Yes, Master," Tim says. "Overall, though, I think the Padres just threw some pieces together and are hoping it works."

"That's what everyone does, though. I sure as fuck wouldn't want to be a GM."

"How about managing, Master?" 

When Buster looks down at Tim, Tim looks as surprised at asking the question as Buster is at hearing it. "This boy...."

"Don't apologize," Buster says. "I did ask if you were comfortable talking about baseball. As for the question...

He pauses, rubbing his thumb over the smooth chain of Tim's collar. It's a question he's been asked a lot, one he usually brushes off. He's concentrating on baseball right now...blah blah blah.

"I used to think I'd want to coach college ball," he says. "But I think I'm too addicted to pro ball. If I stay in the game, I want it to be here. Well, not here in LA."

"You've got the right teacher, Master."

"God, if I can be half as good, I'll be happy. After last season, he'll be in the Hall for sure."

"Master? The even year thing...are you superstitious?" 

"I try not to be because it's bullshit. Winning doesn't depend on the year and playing well doesn't depend on what you had for lunch." He pauses and smiles ruefully. "Then again, when I'm hitting well, I get a little weird about my bats."

Tim tilts his head. "Do you like your boys to take care of your gear, Master?" 

"No. It mostly stays in the clubhouse, and I'm kind of touchy about it. You'll pack my clothes for roadies, though."

"Yes, Master."

Buster looks at the drink he put on the side table and then down at Tim. "I can drink it later," he says. "Get up here; I want you over my lap."

The linen pants slide off Tim's ass nice and easy; Buster definitely made the right choice there. "You'll wear these around the house unless I tell you otherwise."

"Yes, Master," Tim says, shivering as Buster runs a hand over his ass. It's still red and welted, and bruises are starting to show. 

"You were right," Buster says. He pinches one of the bruises and Tim squirms. 

"Master?"

"About the way you bruise up." He needs to be careful and not slap Tim's face any harder than he did last night. 

Tim keeps squirming as Buster pinches and prods at the bruises and welts on his ass. Buster doesn't even think of telling him to stop; there are worse things than having a squirming boy on your lap. With that in mind, Buster starts spanking Tim, ramping it up very slowly. One advantage to being kinky and a catcher--he can spank a boy for a good long time.

"All I have to do is slap your ass a little and you get hard," Buster says, emphasizing his point with a brisk flurry of blows. "Slut."

"Can't help it, Master," Tim says. He pushes up a little, anticipating the next spank. 

"You boys never can." 

Giving Tim one more sharp slap, Buster pushes at his hip a little. "You wanna get down there and give me a blowjob, boy?"

"Please, Master," Tim says, even as he slides from Buster's lap to the floor. He manages it without getting tangled up in his pants, which is more than Buster would be able to do. "Please? Please please, Master." Tim's still blushing and his face gets a little redder as he begs.

Buster makes him beg a little longer and then grabs the collar and drags Tim closer. "Slow, you hear me, boy?"

"Yes, Master," Tim says, his hands already busy with Buster's fly. 

Twenty minutes later, Buster's panting hard as he pulls Tim up by the hair. Tim's idea of slow is agonizingly perfect and Buster's tempted to come right here and now. That's kind of the point, though--not to give in to that temptation right away. "Fuck," he says. "Goddamn...."

Tomorrow, he tells himself. It'll be better if he waits until tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I like to provide my inspirations/visuals, so here we go. [The red and black leather posture collar](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/86/f2/59/86f259363d00b10e7496aff50338997d.jpg) and [Tim's collar.](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/e2/e2/f5/e2e2f54fef52787741a6130e99f48ccf.jpg) The [paddle Buster bought](http://www.betonyvernon.com/elegant-spanker) goes for around $2875.00 and the [ostrich feather tickler](http://www.betonyvernon.com/ostrich-feather-tickler-hook) goes for around $3150.00. So yeah, I wasn't making that up at all. Honestly it's the most Establishment thing I've ever seen in the real world.


	3. Chapter 3

While the playroom Bum leads them to on Sunday afternoon is down in the basement levels of the building, it's not the stereotypical red and black dungeon from a porno. Instead, the walls are a glossy dark gray and the furniture is all matte black. There's a huge mirror on one wall and all the light comes from silver, cone shaped, hanging lamps. 

"It's kinda dystopian," Brandon says. "Right out of Divergent."

"If you say so," Buster says as he unclips Tim's leash. "There," he says, pointing to a spot near the mirror. "Stand there in the light."

"Yes, Master." There's no smiling now; Tim expression is utterly serious as he stands in the pool of light. He looks small and a little lost; the linen pants hanging off his hips, the thick black chain around his neck echoing the dark lines of his tattoos. He looks...fragile.

"Jesus. Look at that," Brandon says. He's the only one wearing a button up shirt--black, like Bum's henley and Buster's t-shirt--and now he starts rolling up his sleeves. "What'd you have in mind, Pose?" 

"Same thing we always do," Bum says, before Buster can answer. "Knock him around a lot and then fuck him." He's trying to sound blase, but his expression as he looks at Tim is as eager as Brandon's. And Buster's for that matter. 

He glances at the mirror and damn, they look menacing. All dark clothes and size, with Tim in front of them. "Knees," Buster says, and Tim goes down, his form perfect. Buster checks the mirror again, and yeah, that's even better. If the big patches of red on Tim's face are any indication, he's aware of how vulnerable he is. Buster hopes he's intimidated. 

No. What Buster really hopes is that Tim's scared.

"So what, we're just gonna look at him? I mean he's worth lookin' at, but...."

"But you're getting impatient."

"Because no one else is," Bum says.

"How 'bout you, boy?" Brandon asks. "You wantin' something?"

"Formal voice when Brandon's talking to you.," Buster says before Tim can answer.

As Tim murmurs, "Yes, Master," Brandon gives Buster a look.

"What? I'm observant."

Tim pauses, giving them time to talk before saying, "Sir, all this boy wants is whatever Master and Master's friends want, Sir."

"Because this boy," Buster says. "Is a slut."

"Yes, Master."

"Aren't they all?" Brandon says. "Where do you want him?"

"Let's get him up on the cross so Bum can work him over."

Brandon strides over to Tim and grabs him by the bicep. Hauling him to his feet, he drags Tim over to the big standing St. Andrew's cross so fast Tim almost stumbles. Tim's not really that small, but Brandon is fucking huge; next to him, most people are small. If Buster wasn't hard already, watching Brandon shove Tim up against the cross would've done the trick. 

There are still marks on Tim's back from the flogging he took during the Auction, but they're nowhere near dark enough for Buster. Or for Bum, Buster thinks, as Bum starts pulling his floggers out of his gear bag. 

"Pants or not?" Brandon asks.

"Not."

"Anything I need to know before I start whalin' on him?" Bum asks as Brandon shoves Tim's pants down.

"Avoid those tattoos on his lower back," Buster says.

"Fuck you," Bum says, without any real anger. "I know where to hit and where not to hit a boy." He pauses. "I like 'em though. Better'n the shit we see in the game."

It's funny, Buster thinks as Bum shakes out a soft deerskin flogger. Whenever they get together and play with a boy, they all start sounding a lot more country. For a brief moment, he wonders what Tim makes of it.

There's a low bench along one side of the room; Buster sits down as Brandon settles in next to him. Buster wonders how soon the trash talking will start up. If these two ever get a boy, he's going to have to have the patience of a saint. Of course, you probably don't make it in the Establishment if you don't have patience.

Bum's going for the classic approach; he warms Tim up with slow, easy swings of the soft flogger. He works with his right hand--the only thing he does with his left is pitch--and his flogger's dark brown. Buster likes the way the strands of leather look against Tim's slowly reddening skin. Before long, Tim's gasping softly--enough to acknowledge the beating without overdoing it.

"You think he's warmed up enough for the next one?" Bum asks little while later. It's clearly a rhetorical question; he's already pulling the big elk flogger. "I gotta learn to make these," he says, shaking out the tangles.

"You said that about paddles last year," Buster says.

"And cuffs the year before," Brandon adds. "Just because you know how to add an extra hole to a belt...."

There's a joke about Bum needing to do that, but it looks like they've all put on weight this offseason and Buster doesn't want to call that particular kettle black. And anyway, he thinks, watching as Bum comb his long fingers through the leather, the idea of Bum making his own leather toys is pretty hot. 

"Oh!" Tim gasps as the elk tails of the flogger land on his back with a soft thump. 

"Too much, boy?" Bum asks.

"No, Sir," Tim says quickly. He catches his breath when Bum hits him again. "It's good, Sir."

"Ain't doin' it for you," Bum says. He's got a good rhythm going and Tim's starting to whimper a little. 

"Yes, Sir. Thank you anyway, Sir." 

It's a nice echo of what Tim said to Buster yesterday and Buster can't decide if Tim sounds selfish or just self-assured. After all, stipped of all the pretenses, this is for him as much as it's for the tops in the room. Buster likes it, he decides.

"Hang on, Bum," he says.

Tim bows his head when Buster steps around the cross to face him. "Look up," Buster says softly.

"You like this, don't you?"

"Master, I know it's not for..." 

"That's not what I asked," Buster snaps.

"Yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master," Tim says quickly. "And yes, Master, I do like it."

Buster reaches out and grabs Tim's chin, digging his fingers into Tim's jaw until Tim winces. "Because you're a fucking slut," he says, keeping his voice hard.

"Yes, Master," Tim says. He swallows hard and his face flushes up.

"I like pain sluts," Bum says.

"Oh, it's not just pain," Buster says. "My boy's a straight-up slut."

"Only not so straight," Brandon says with a laugh.

Tim smiles a little--intimate and private--and without thinking, Buster leans in and kisses him hard. He doesn't rush it, biting at Tim's mouth until he can taste the metallic tang of blood. When he finally pulls back, Tim immediately licks his lower lip and shivers. 

"Master," he murmurs.

Buster just nods and lets go of Tim's chin. "Thanks, Bum," he says. Stepping back, he crosses his arms across his chest. "I'll try not to break your rhythm again."

"Catcher controls the pace of the game," Bum says.

"'Cause they're all bossy jerks," Brandon says.

"Dude, I'm letting you play with my toy," Buster says. Tim catches his breath. "Yeah, that's what you are, isn't it?"

"Yes, Master. Your toy."

Buster watches Tim's face as Bum continues to beat him. He can tell that Tim hasn't really given in to it yet; but it Bum doesn't get him there, whatever Brandon's going to use on him probably will. The steady thud of the flogger landing on Tim's back gets louder as Bum slowly ramps up up the pace, and now Tim's moving more with it--arching his back into each blow.

"You ready for some buffalo hide, boy?"

"Please, Sir. Please."

"Babe, what've you got against actual cow leather?"

"C'mon, you know I gotta work up to the latigo."

Tim shivers and Bum laughs. "Yeah, you'll be sleeping on your stomach tonight."

Apparently Bum's feeling ambitious tonight; he pulls both of his big buffalo floggers out of his bag and starts shaking them out. As Buster watches him warm up, he remembers back when Bum bought his first flogger and how Buster had let him try it out on Buster's back. Once. He supposes it's just as well their kinks don't match up that way. He has no idea what it would do to their working relationship and anyway, Bum and Brandon are in love and not just a couple horny buddies fucking around because they're both gay, horny and bored.

Bum takes a deep breath. Even though Tim braces himself, his harsh grunt when the first and then second blow land in quick succession sounds almost shocked. Buster's not sure what he wants to see more, Tim's face, or the floggers landing on his back.

Tim's face, he decides. He's seen Bum use two floggers before and, while it's hot, he'll undoubtedly see it again. Right now he wants to watch Tim; see what he looks like while someone's hurting him. 

"Oh fuck," Tim yelps as the floggers keep landing on his back. "Oh God...oh please..." 

"You want me to shut him up?" Buster asks.

"Remember Pittsburgh?" Bum replies with a laugh. "Takes more than a boy yelling to mess me up."

"Why the please?" Buster asks Tim.

Swallowing hard, Tim focuses on Buster's face. "Just say it..oh!...sometimes, Master." He cries out again, yelling now as the pain builds. "'Cause 'm a...oh fuck oh fuck..a slut, Master."

"Remember how Adrian always pretended not to be a total slut?" Brandon says.

"Belt!" Buster snaps. 

"What!?"

Even Bum's stopped now; he looks around the cross, and frowns at Buster. Buster's not sure if it's because he jumped on Brandon or if Bum's just annoyed because Buster interrupted him again. 

"Sorry," Buster says, because of course they don't know. "Look, you don't make comparisons like that. It's not fair to the slave."

Buster almost glances at Tim and rolls his eyes the way he would in the clubhouse if someone said something stupid. He catches himself in time because...what the fuck? Inviting a slave to laugh at another top isn't done either. "If you guys are going to get a slave, you better start reading up on it. There's more to it than writing a check, you know."

"Sorry, Buster," Brandon says. At least he knows not to apologize to Tim.

"Like I said, me too," Buster says. "I shouldn't have barked at you."

"Damn right. Keep it up and I'll kick your ass." As Buster snorts in disbelief, Bum runs his hand over Tim's back. "How you doin' boy?"

There's that little sound that Buster already likes hearing--Tim's breath catching in his throat. He squirms and looks right at Buster as he says, "Good, Sir. Thank you for hurting me, Sir."

This time Bum doesn't bother to say that it's not for Tim; he just presses one of the welts Buster left on Tim's ass. "Know why I'm not hitting you here?"

"No, Sir."

"Because I'm gonna lay some stripes down on your ass with a cane," Brandon says.

To Buster's surprise, Tim gives him an eager look before turning his head to look at Brandon. "May this boy speak, Sir?"

"Go ahead," Brandon says, looking pleased.

"This boy is looking forward to it, Sir."

Formal voice usually sounds forced to Buster, but it rolls off Tim's tongue as if he speaks that way all the time. Who knows, maybe Tim's last owner insisted on it. 

"Good boy," Buster murmurs.

Once Bum starts up again, it's not long before Tim's yelling--a harsh, gasping kind of noise that makes Buster want to hear more. "You're gonna cry for me when it hurts, aren't you, boy?"

"Yes, Master. Wanna...show you 'm hurting for you."

Bum keeps it you for several more minutes before finally stepping back. Once the floggers are no longer hitting Tim's back, the only sound in the room is Tim's rough breathing.

"Nice work, babe," Brandon says. "You should switch pitch."

"Nah," Bum says. "I'm not amphibious when it comes to pitching."

"Well played," Buster says, laughing along with Brandon. He glances at Tim, who looks a little curious, even though Buster's pretty sure his main focus is on recovering. And bracing himself for more. 

"Later," he says quietly. 

"Huh?" Bum says.

"Wasn't talking to you."

When Bum's exchanged the two floggers for one, he steps up behind Tim and runs his hand down Tim's back. Tim shudders and closes his eyes. 

"I think he's warmed up enough," Bum says. "I'd ask him, but...."

"But you don't have to," Buster says.

There's a pause and then Bum says, "Yeah." He pauses again. "But I will tell you to brace yourself, boy."

"Yes, Sir," Tim says. He takes a deep breath and then, just as he lets it out, Bum brings the hard, latigo flogger down on his back. "Oh fuck!" Tim yells. "Oh God...."

Bum's taking it slow and nowhere near hard as he could go. Then again, with this whip, he could split Tim's skin if he went full on. Given the amount of noise Tim's making, though, he doesn't need to. And then, finally, Buster gets what he wanted. Tim chokes off a yell and tears start rolling down his cheeks. 

When, a few blows later, Tim drops his head, Buster frowns a little. Leaning forward, he grabs Tim's hair, yanking his head up. Tim's crying hard now--harsh, gasping, sobs that make Buster want more. "More," he says. "Gimme more."

He wasn't actually talking to Bum, but when Bum brings the flogger down again, he's obviously putting a little more force behind it. As soon as the flogger lands, Tim throws his head back and yells. He's tugging against Buster's hold, but Buster's pretty sure he barely notices the faint pain. 

"Think I'm done here," Bum says after Tim's yelled his way through another ten blows.

"What do you think, is he done?" Buster asks, after giving Tim a moment to calm down some. "Or do you want more, boy?"

"Want to please you, Master," Tim gasps out. And yes, it's the right answer, but there's no doubt Tim means it.

Buster finally loosens his grip on Tim's hair, sliding his hand down to the back of Tim's neck. He leans in close and murmurs, "you do." Before Tim can respond, Buster leans in and kisses him hard. 

"Thank you, Master," Tim says, once Buster's pulled away. He's smiling and this time there is eye makeup on his cheeks and, all in all, he pleases Buster very much. 

"We're not done with you, you know."

"I hope not, Master."

"Hate to tell you this, Buster," Bum says. "But your boy's a fucking slut."

"Who knew?" Buster says "Brandon," he adds. "You want him on that spanking bench?"

Once Tim's settled on the bench, Brandon walks around in front of him. "All right, boy," he says, pulling on a pair of plain black gloves. "Buster's not big on formality, so I won't have you count and all that."

"How about a compromise?" Buster says. "Tim, give him a count and thank him every five strokes."

"You're such an asshole," Bum says.

"I really am," Buster says with a grin.

"Make it every six, boy," Brandon says. "That's more traditional."

"Yes, Sir," Tim murmurs. 

"How do you even know?" Bum asks at the same moment. "They teach you that shit in college or something?"

"Kink 204." Brandon doesn't even look at Bum as he flexes and tests a rattan cane. "The final's a bitch too."

"Longhorn education at its finest," Buster says with a laugh. Tim, he thinks, better get used to this kind of back and forth--a mini version of the clubhouse environment.

"Okay," Brandon says. "Mind if I...?"

"Yeah, go ahead." Buster moves into a good position. The bench is half bondage table, half spanking bench; he can see both Tim's face and his ass. 

"Ask me for it, boy," Brandon says.

"Please, Sir," Tim says, looking up at Brandon. "Please cane this boy, Sir." He kisses the cane when Brandon holds it out and then takes a deep breath and lets it out. He does it again and then again as Brandon settles behind him. 

Brandon rests the cane on Tim's ass. "You need a warm up, boy?"

Now this will be interesting; Buster knows Brandon means it, but Tim doesn't know that. So far, Tim's been just a little unusual, but Buster's betting he'll go with the correct answer here.

Sure enough, Tim says, "Only if it would please you, Sir." Even as he speaks to Brandon, Tim turns his head to look at Buster. He looks eager and afraid, and all Buster can think is yes and mine and yes again.

"It wouldn't," Brandon says. He taps Tim's ass once and then lifts the cane. 

Buster gets one more eager look from Tim and then Tim yells, high and shrill. It hits Buster right in the chest and he closes his eyes. It all comes down to someone hurting because he wants them to want it, never mind that it's Brandon beating Tim right now. As the cane lands and Tim shrieks again, Buster smiles; Tim's there because of Buster. Because Buster owns him.

"Six, Sir," Tim gets out a few minutes later. "Please Sir, may this boy have another?"

"Yeah I think we can do that," Brandon says, his voice is a little hoarse as well. Unlike Bum, Brandon does everything with his left hand, including caning boys. As always, it looks a little odd.

Mostly, however, he's focused on Tim. Tim's crying again and screaming, and Buster wonders how much he can take before he begs for Brandon to stop. By the time Tim counts the twelfth blow, he's having a hard time getting words out and when he looks at Buster again, he's less eager looking and a lot more afraid.

"Oh yeah," Buster says, when Brandon steps back. "Oh hell yeah...." He reaches down and adjusts his hardon, looking right at Tim. 

"What you said," Bum says, looking at Tim's ass. "Good work, babe."

"Thanks, but am I done?" Brandon asks, glancing at Buster. 

For a moment Tim seems to think the question is aimed at him. He opens his mouth and then closes it again. Buster was going to tell Brandon to keep going, instead, he says, "What were you going to say to Brandon, boy?"

Tim swallows hard and says, "Please, Sir. This boy hopes you aren't done, Sir."

Brandon laughs. "Greedy slut," he says. "Your call Buster."

Buster can resist--holding his hand down like he's giving a sign, he flashes five fingers followed by a single finger.

"Don't do that," Brandon says, shaking his head. "I need to be able to look at you and not get a boner on the mound."

"You'd scare half the fans with that monster," Buster says.

"The other half, though," Bum says. "You'll be their favorite player."

In spite of the obvious pain he's in, Tim smiles. Buster can't help smiling back at him. Then, when Brandon taps his ass with the cane again, he breaths in and lets it out. "Please, Sir," he says. "Please beat this boy, Sir."

Brandon slows down, but he's hitting Tim harder now, the cane landing on earlier stripes. Tim scream his way through the next six blows, while Buster watches closely. He's beginning to regret not coming last night--there's edging and then there's flat out torture and this is getting close to the latter.

By the time Brandon's done, Tim's voice is ragged. "Eighteen..Sir." Please...please may this boy...have another, S..Sir?"

Buster shakes his head and Brandon says, "'Fraid not, boy."

Tim, Buster notices, doesn't look as relieved as you'd expect. Buster's impressed; in spite of his shaky answer a moment earlier, Tim's clearly not about to beg for a stop to all this. Someday, Buster thinks. Someday he'll find Tim's limits. Someday soon.

"What's next?" Bum asks, breaking the silence.

"Huh?" Buster tries to clear his mind and focus on the current scene. Stepping forward, he smacks Tim's ass. "You guys wanna fuck him?"

"We could double team him," Brandon says. "How's his mouth, Buster?"

"Fucking amazing," Buster says. "Put him on the mat though. Don't want to fuck up your knees."

Bum nods, but before anyone can move Tim, Buster leans in close. Putting his mouth near Tim's ear, he murmurs," You ever think you'd have two Giants aces take you?"

"No, Master," Tim says, his voice equally soft. His face is red and he's still breathing hard, but he still manages to smile at Buster. "Never thought I'd be owned by an MVP either, Master."

"Crawl over to the mat, you flatterer."

"What did he say?" Bum asks.

"Sorry, but it's inside baseball stuff," Buster says.

"Already," Bum says. Buster's not sure what to make of that, but it's not a question, so he doesn't bother trying to find an answer. And anyway, they're all too busy watching Tim crawl over to the mat near the mirror. 

"Pretty," Brandon says. 

"Please Master, may I thank Mr. Belt?"

"Mr. Belt," Bum says with a snicker. 

Buster ignores him. "Go ahead," he tells Tim.

"This boy thanks Sir for the caning," Tim says before bending down and pressing his head to the floor in front of Brandon's boots.

"I like this one, Buster," Brandon says. Nudging Tim's chin with his boot, he adds, "look up."

"Yes, Sir."

"You'e a good boy."

"This boy thanks you, Sir."

"Now get your ass over to the mat," Brandon says as he nudges Tim again. 

"Yes, Sir."

Buster's seen Bum and Brandon do this before and honestly, it's better than porn. In spite of their competitiveness, they work well together and it shows when they're fucking someone. Mostly though, Buster's attention is on Tim. 

The way he moans as Brandon slowly pushes into him. The sharp little cry and slight wince when Brandon's hips press up against his welted ass. And oh fuck, the way his mouth stretches around Bum's dick. Goddamn, Buster thinks. God fucking damn, it's fucking obscene.

"Do him harder," he says his voice rough. 

"Yeah," Bum says. He reaches down, grabs Tim's hair and starts fucking Tim's mouth. Brandon waits half a second and then easily picks up Bum's rhythm and matches it. This might be better than a porno, but before long it sure as fuck sounds like one. Tim can't make much noise, but Bum's grunting and Brandon's muttering obscenities under his breath. Along with the slap of skin on skin, it's easily the best thing Buster's heard in awhile. 

It's really getting to him too; when he reaches down again, it's not to adjust his junk but to undo his belt. When he gets his zipper down, he slides his hand down inside his shorts and starts stroking his dick. He's taking it slow, but he feels like it's been weeks since he came instead of just one day.

Brandon's really going for it; his words getting more and more audible. "Fuck yeah...fuck...take it boy...suck Maddy off like a good slut...take that dick all the way down...." The first time Buster heard him, it was utterly incongruous because Brandon doesn't swear once he's at the park. Now, though, it's just fucking hot. 

"Oh he can take it," Buster says, moving his hand a little faster. "The little slut can take both of you. I bet he loves it. I bet he wants it all the time."

Bum sits back on his heels, pulling out of Tim's mouth. "Jesus, you two," he says. He catches his breath and looks down at Tim. "Do you boy? Do you want it all the time?"

"Yes, Sir," Tim says. His voice is raspy and he probably looks even more wrecked than he did earlier. And that gives Buster an idea. 

"We gonna talk or are we gonna keep fucking this slut?" Brandon asks, his voice shaky.

"How about we all just jack it?" Buster asks. "Come all over him?" 

"Yeah, okay," Brandon says as Bum nods.

"Kneel up," Buster says.

Buster was right; Tim's a wreck. His mouth's even more swollen than it was after Buster bit him, his eye makeup is completely trashed and he looks dazed--still high on the pain, Buster thinks. He's aware though; he looks right at Buster and says, "Please, Master, please."

"Please what?" Buster asks, even as he shoves his pant and shorts down far enough to get his dick out. 

"Please, Master, please mess me up. Please come all over me, please, Master? Please, Sirs?"

Both Bum and Brandon are on their feet now, both staring down at Tim. "I could listen to him beg all day," Brandon says. "If only I didn't wanna come so bad."

Tim looks up at Brandon. "Please, Sir, this boy is begging for it, Sir."

"He'd probably beg just to beg," Bum says.

"Some other time." Buster starts stroking his dick. "Brandon's not the only one who wants to come."

"Please, Master," Tim says. "May I keep begging?"

"Good boy," Buster says with a laugh.

Once Tim gets going, he's not formal, or even all that coherent. Not that Buster cares much. Tim's breathy, needy words--"please" and "Master" and "Sir" and "all over my face"--are totally working for Buster. Tim's eyes are closed, his face is tilted up, and he licks his lips when he's not begging. 

Buster gives serious thought to holding off until later because it will be really really good if he does. When Bum grunts and then comes all over Tim's face, however, Buster changes his mind. It has nothing to do with Bum--Buster's seen him come plenty of times--and everything to do with the way Tim looks. 

Gorgeous, Buster thinks. Perfect, he thinks. Hot and nasty and all mine, he thinks. 

'You dirty...fucking...whore," Brandon mutters right before he comes. 

Tim licks his lips clean and in spite of everything they've done to him, or maybe because of it, his cheeks are red. 

"You are...aren't you?" Buster says. "A filthy slut." Tim's eyes go big and, as he opens his mouth to reply, Buster groans and comes _hard_. 

Buster's still catching his breath when he looks up and sees them all in the mirror. Like earlier, he thinks, only ever better. 

"Your filthy slut, Master," Tim says. 

"Damn right you're mine."

* * *

"You were good tonight," Buster says, shoving Tim against the shower wall, mouthing at the bruise on his shoulder. 

"Thank you, Master." Tim squirms and Buster's not sure if he wants to avoid the pain as Buster presses up close to him. Or maybe he just wants more. 

"You think you deserve a reward?"

"That's up to you, Master," Tim says. "But I sure hope so."

Buster can't help snorting just a little. "Yeah?"

He intended it as a joke, but when Tim speaks again, he sounds serious.

"It's about being good for you, Master." When Buster pulls back a little, Tim turns and looks at Buster over his shoulder. "Rewards are nice, but what it really means is that...I've pleased you, Master."

"Turn around," Buster says. Tim looks a little nervous when they're face to face, but Buster reaches up and rests a hand on the back of his neck. "I meant it when I said you were good. You have pleased me." He leans in and kisses Tim--a quick, hard kiss. "And I think you deserve a reward." Another quick kiss. "You can come as soon as...whenever you want."

This time when he kisses Tim, he slides a hand down between them and takes hold of Tim's dick. As he jerks Tim off, he keeps kissing him until Tim's squirming against him and moaning into his mouth. It's not long before Tim goes tense, his body shaking as he presses even closer to Buster. He doesn't come, though; after all, Buster did say "whenever" and not "as soon as you can."

Tim only makes it another minute, maybe two, before he shudders hard and comes all over Buster's thigh. He slumps against Buster and Buster puts his arms around Tim and holds him close.

"Thank you, Master," Tim murmurs, his lips moving on Buster's skin.

"C'mon," Buster says after a moment. "It was hard work watching them beat the crap out of you and I'm hungry."

Tim looks up at him and smiles. "Yes, Master."

"Plus," Buster says, after leaning down for another quick kiss. "I haven't hurt you yet tonight, and I'll need all my strength for that."

He hadn't even thought about it when they were playing downstairs and he's not sure why. It's nice to stand back and see what your new boy looks like when he's hurting. And, of course, he likes to share with Bum and Brandon and not just because they're his close friends. They don't get a lot of chances to really air it out; neither of them is enough of a switch to like heavy pain. 

None of that explains why Buster didn't take a turn. He's never had a problem playing in front of others; in fact, he likes it as much as he likes playing baseball in front of a full house. But for some reason, he held back and he can't even remember making the decision, let alone why he made it.

Buster blinks. He's still in the shower with Tim up against him, and he should probably focus on what he's doing. And what he plans to do. "Sorry," he says, surprising himself. "I was miles away." Slapping Tim's hip, he adds, "okay, let's get dry and fed."

Unlike Buster's other boys, Tim doesn't seem to give a damn about what he eats. It's not like he has anything to worry about; Buster probably needs to watch his own weight more than Tim does. Now, as Buster eats his own steak, he watches Tim work his way through an order of teriyaki salmon and rice, a sushi roll and some sashimi. He uses chopsticks like he grew up using them, which, he could have, seeing as he's from Seattle.

It's weird, Buster thinks, that he knows things about Tim that a different owner probably wouldn't know. He hopes it's not too awkward for Tim. At least Buster knows a lot more about Lincecum than he does about Tim. For now.

"You'll have to teach me how to use those at some point," Buster says. "I've never gotten the hang of it."

"I'd be happy to, Master," Tim says. "It's easy enough."

"Even with fingers like mine?"

"Yes, Master," Tim says, looking right at Buster's hands. When he glances back up and catches Buster watching him, his face goes a little red.

"Slut," Buster says.

"Yes, Master," Tim says and smiles at him.

"All right," Buster says, once they're done with dinner and Tim's cleared the dishes. "Bring me one of the toys you bought last night. The one I can hurt you with."

"Active hurting Master, or passive?" 

"Active," Buser says. "Although now I'm curious, but no, don't tell me."

"Yes Master."

When Tim kneels at Buster's feet a moment later, he holds up a short, split paddle. It's not quite a tawse--Buster has a couple of those--but the stiff leather looks pretty vicious. "That's gonna hurt like fuck on top of those stripes Brandon put down," Buster says as he turns it over in his hands.

"Yes, Master," Tim says with a little shiver. 

"Okay, get up here," Buster says, patting his lap. 

He doesn't start in on Tim right away, though. Tim's back and ass are red and welted and bruised in some places. The marks from Brandon's cane are a neat series of lines starting at the top of Tim's ass and moving down. Brandon had had to overlap a couple times, resulting in a couple of truly nasty stripes. Tim will be feeling those for a while, Buster thinks with a smile.

When he touches Tim, he avoids all the welts and bruises. Instead, he traces the spirals and curved lines of the tattoo on Tim's lower back with his finger. "How much did this hurt?"

"Not too much, Master. It was a little worse right on my spine, but the real discomfort comes later."

"Oh?"

"They itch when they're healing, Master."

"And you're not supposed to scratch, right?"

"No scratching, Master. It's pretty awful; I'll take a beating any day."

"Of course you would," Buster says, laughing when Tim raises his ass up a little. "Slut."

Buster takes it slow, using his hand first. There's no point in whaling on Tim if he can get the same results with less effort, and he thinks Tim deserves some warm up. Not that Buster can really go too easy on him; even a mild slap makes Tim flinch and catch his breath.

"Hurts?'

"Yes, Master." 

"And you want more?"

"Yes, Master. Please, Master?" Tim arches his back again, pressing his ass up into Buster's hand.

"Harder?"

"Please, Master...just...however you want, Master. Please Master, please just hurt me?"

Buster closes his eye and takes a deep breath. 'Yeah," he says, his voice harsh. "Yeah, I'm gonna..."

The choked off yell Tim makes when the blow lands gets to Buster as much as the begging did. Tim keeps yelling as the black leather of the split paddle keeps landing on his ass and never mind that Buster came earlier, he's getting hard all over again. 

It doesn't take long to get Tim where Buster wants him; after a couple of minutes, Tim shudders all over and goes limp over Buster's lap. "Master," he says softly and then starts crying.

"Good boy," Buster says. He doesn't stop beating Tim and he knows Tim doesn't expect him to. Instead, he delivers a quick flurry of blows to the underside of Tim's ass, right where Brandon's cane made Tim shriek. This time Tim just sobs harder; when Buster puts the paddle aside, he lays a hand on Tim's ass. Drawing a deep breath, he closes his eyes and just takes the moment in. 

"Good boy," he says again. 

"Thank you, Master," Tim says. "For the beating also, Master."

Buster laughs and runs his across Tim's ass. Tim squirms and Buster pauses. "That tickles?"

"No Master. It's a...little hurt? I like it, Master." 

"Micro pain?"

Tim's laugh is a little ragged. "Yes, Master. A reminder."

"Pretty sure just wearing pants will do it for the next few days," Buster says. He scratches Tim's ass again, enjoying the feeling as Tim wriggles again. "Up," he says. "Get me some lube and then come straddle me."

Once Tim's settled on the couch, Buster slides his fingers down the crack of Tim's ass. Tim keeps squirming as Buster gets him ready and Buster remembers Ethan letting him move like that on the block. It was nice enough to watch Tim move; it's even better to feel it.

It's more than just nice when Tim sinks down, taking Buster in one smooth, slow, move. "Oh fuck," Buster groans. He grabs Tim's hips, digging his fingers. "Ride me nice and slow, boy." Tim's idea of nice and slow is more like torture and slow. It's perfect and Buster tilts his head back, closes his eyes and lets himself just feel. 

There's a lot to feel, but Buster's oddly aware of the smooth, fine, skin of Tim's hips. It's not like Tim isn't bruised up enough, but knowing he'll have Buster's fingerprints as well--overlapping fingerprints for that matter--makes Buster dig his fingers in harder. Tim moans and, as Buster watches, he loses the fight to keep his eyes open.

A short time later, Buster loses that same fight. There are the usual lights moving across his vision; lights that get a little more frantic as he uses his hands to speed Tim up. Tim's not loud as he rides Buster harder, but he's pretty vocal, begging for more in broken words. While Buster wants to hear him fighting to be heard through a gag, he's certainly enjoying it now.

Buster had planned to wait, planned to put off coming for a few days, but right now, he's not even thinking about that. He's not thinking about anything much at all, just remembering how Tim looked earlier, kneeling in front of them covered in come. 

"Fuck," Buster grunts, shoving up into Tim. "Fuck fuck fuck...." He pulls Tim down and holds him still, coming while the lights flash behind his eyes. When he says, "fuck," again, his voice is soft. He feels light and a little floppy, like he's high or something. 

"Master," Tim says, his voice as low as Buster's. He's not asking for Buster's attention; Buster's noticed that sometimes Tim just says it for whatever reason. Buster likes it.

"Good boy," Buster murmurs. Pulling Tim close, he holds him, running his hands down Tim's hot, welted, back to his equally marked up ass. Tim shivers and carefully leans his head on Buster's shoulder, like he's not sure if he should or not. Buster tightens his arms a little, and Tim relaxes, his whole body going loose and pliant.

Tim's still shuddering a little, though; Buster guesses it's just the events of the past afternoon and evening catching up with him. It probably is, he thinks as he hears a quiet gulp and then another one. 

"It's okay," Buster says, reaching up to brush Tim's hair away from his damp cheek. "It's always okay to cry. Even when I'm not whaling on you."

"Thank...thank you, Master."

Buster should get up. He should tidy up and check his email and texts and look over what passes for a script for the ad he's filming in the morning. It's not much--they don't like to push what little acting talent he posses--but he should still take a look at it. He should also....

He should, but he doesn't. During the season, he won't have the luxury of procrastination, but now he can put things off if he wants to. Pulling Tim a little closer, he leans back against the sofa. 

All the shoulds, he thinks, can wait.


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the week proceeds exactly as Buster planned. Bum and Brandon headed up to San Francisco Monday morning; all Buster has to do before he can follow is film the Toyota ads. That goes about as well as possible. Buster always starts out feeling super self-conscious, but by the end of the first day, he's relaxed some. He figures they always get a director who's good with non-actors, but maybe he's finally getting used to it. There will be the team ads to shoot in San Francisco as well, but the those are usually a lot of fun. Brandon might complain the way the Giants scripts always make him look like a doofus, but it's not just him; Buster looked pretty silly last year too. 

He doesn't mind it too much.

"It's always weird, you know?" he says to Tim Wednesday night. They're lying in bed--Tim on his stomach and Buster next to him. He runs a hand over Tim's lower back, idly tracing one of the spirals of Tim's tattoo. Tim's ass is hot and bruised--new welts laid down over older ones--and Buster slides his hand down further, stroking lightly. 

"Master?" Tim asks, even as he squirms a little.

"Filming," Buster says. "I fail in front of forty thousand people all the time, but that's a hundred times easier than standing on a set, flubbing lines in front of maybe a dozen people."

"It's always a matter of what you're used to, isn't it, Master?" Tim arches his back a little, pushing up into Buster's touch. "I'd be a lot more comfortable...." He trails off and laughs. "Maybe that's the wrong word, but it would be a lot easier for me to get fucked in front of a bunch of people I don't know than to take even one at bat in a big league game."

Buster laughs with him. "Well, I'm even more comfortable fucking some boy...." He pauses and slaps Tim's ass. "In front of a bunch of people I don't know, than I am saying, 'the Theodore Schwimmer of compact sedans.'"

"You have to say that, Master?"

"Yeah, the joke is that they're comparing everything in the showroom to me, like, the 'Buster Posey of pickup trucks' and so on, and there's this dweeby guy who wants things named after him. It's stupid."

"But funny?"

"Sort of," Buster admits. "Once I finally got it right." 

"Last year's ads were pretty funny, Master." Tim ducks his head a little, turning toward the pillows when Buster looks at him. "The ones for the team, Master."

"Oh God, don't remind me," Buster says, oddly touched that Tim bothered to dig them up online.

Tim takes in a breath like he's about to speak, but says nothing.

"What?"

"Master, the telenovela one...." Tim's obviously trying to keep a straight face, but when their eyes meet, he snickers a little.

"Ay, que lindo!" Buster says, laughing along with him. "My sister will not let that one go."

"At least they didn't dress you up like a fangirl, Master."

"Speaking of not letting things go, Bum still gives Brandon shit about that."

"Master," Tim says with a demure little smile. "I think Mr. Belt looked good in an orange wig."

"Never mind the wig," Buster says. "That skirt looked like it was painted on his ass; it was so tight they had to photoshop his junk out of the ad."

"To be fair, Master," Tim begins.

"I know, right?" Buster says without thinking. "That's a lot of junk to try to hide."

"I'm not sure I'd put it that way, Master, but yes."

"You didn't have any trouble with it."

"Well of course not, Master. But I'm a slut and a slave and I love dick, so...."

Buster slaps Tim's ass again. "Get over here, you slutty slave, and show me how much you love dick."

"Yes, Master."

* * *

"How's your ass?" Buster asks early the next afternoon. He's on the phone with Tim, calling from outside the studio where they've just wrapped everything up. 

"Welted, Master," Tim replies. "Bruised too."

Buster grins; he left a big hickey on Tim's right ass cheek this morning. "Can you sit on it for a while?"

"Yes, Master," Tim says almost before Buster finishes the question.

"No seriously," Buster asks. "Can you deal with a long drive?"

"Yes, Master. I can even take the wheel if you'd like."

"Yeah, no. I'll have you drive now and then but only when I'm too tired to do it myself." Buster runs a hand through his hair. "I've never gone all the way up Highway One; I thought I'd rent a car and head up that way."

"Yes, Master. Would you like me to handle the car rental?"

"Yeah, you'll be handling all that stuff from now on. Just make sure it's comfortable...oh, and not a truck. Get something that handles better."

Tim's idea of a comfortable, non-truck is a sleek, black, BMW crossover with a leather interior and a dashboard with what Bum might describe as "technology and stuff. "Not bad," he says as Tim stows their luggage in the back. "If your butt's going to hurt, might as well hurt in luxury?"

"I wasn't thinking of my own comfort, Master," Tim says. "If I was in too much pain," he adds with a smile. "I wouldn't be wearing these jeans."

Buster leans against the side of the car and looks Tim's outfit over--dark, snug, skinny jeans rolled narrowly at the cuffs; brown, slightly worn looking boots; plain untucked white shirt under a grey sweater and a dark red scarf. "I like the jeans," he says. "And the rest of it."

"Thank you, Master." 

Buster's always liked his boys to dress well, but Tim's got more style than he's used to. He wonders what Tim makes of Buster's old, sloppy, Lees, his flannel shirt and worn, comfortable, boots, and before he can think better of it, he says, "I hope you're not embarrassed to be seen with me."

Tim smiles, almost like Buster hadn't just ask a question that sounded like he was fishing for a compliment. "Not hardly, Master." 

Buster looks down at his own boots. "Well," he says as he helps Tim with the rest of the luggage. "These probably need some work."

"Work with a rag and polish, Master? Or work with my mouth?"

"Rag and polish." Buster pauses. "And your mouth."

Tim licks his lips and then gives Buster that little smile. "Please, Master."

It takes them a while to get out of LA, but eventually Malibu is behind them. It's a gorgeous late afternoon, clear and cold, and as they drive further up the coast, Buster can see islands out on the horizon. 

"Days like this," he says. "Make me understand why people live down here."

"Los Angeles isn't that bad, Master," Tim says.

"Provided you have money," Buster says. "And can live in Malibu or some place like that."

"Anywhere's nice if you have money, Master."

Buster laughs. "True enough." He pauses and glances over at Tim. "You don't utterly hate country music, do you?" 

"Not at all, Master.I lived on a big spread in Texas a couple of owners ago. I learned to appreciate it, Master." 

 

"Good, because tomorrow's a long drive. If I can drag myself out of bed that is."

"Master?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you sleep that soundly during the season, Master?"

"Worried that you'll have to wake me up?" Buster asks with a smile. "Nah, it's different during the season," he adds before Tim can answer. "If I set an alarm, I can force myself to wake up. On good days, I can even dress myself."

Tim laughs. "If not, well, you have me, Master."

"It's usually getting undressed that's the problem. That, and falling asleep on the sofa. When I do that, you don't need to be tactful about it. Shaking me by the shoulder is fine. More than fine--necessary."

"Yes, Master."

They fall silent after that, an easy silence that reminds Buster of all those endless bus rides in the minor leagues with Bum. He's not exhausted now, but it's still comfortable--companionable even.

"I'm much more used to Highway Five from when I was with Fresno," he says, following up on his thoughts. "I'm not sure where to stay tonight."

"We're not staying at the Ranch, Master?"

"Nah," Buster says. "I've never been and I don't see any reason to go for just one night." Another glance at Tim. "Have you been?"

"Yes, Master. My second owners lived in Montecito, pretty close to the Ranch," Tim says. "They had a couple of ponies."

"But not you," Buster says. Even if Buster hadn't known, it would be an easy guess. Tim might be stronger than he looks, but he's still too slight to be a pony.

"No Master," Tim says. "I was just a pleasure slave."

"I don't know why, " Buster says. "But that term always sounds...fake, I guess." He laughs at his own words. "Like this whole thing isn't...."

The silence, as he trails off, is no longer comfortable. 

"Fuck," he mutters, keeping his eyes on the road for a long moment before he finally has the courage to look over at Tim. 

To his surprise, Tim doesn't look insulted or even upset. "Well, it is, Master." He laughs, as if struck by the contradiction of his words. 

"Yeah, but we usually don't talk about it."

Tim pauses for a long moment and then, just as Buster thinks he's done talking about this, he takes a breath. "We do, Master. Slaves I mean."

"Yeah, to be fair, I did make that point when I was trying to explain the Establishment to Bum after I joined."

"Still," he adds, "Sorry for the intrusion." 

Most slaves would look shocked and say he shouldn't apologize or something along those lines. Tim, however, just nods and says, "Thank you, Master." 

He pauses again, another long pause. "Master?"

"Yeah?"

"How far do you want to drive this evening?"

"I'm not sure," Buster says. "This was a whim so I didn't look at a map." It seems like he's acting on a lot of whims lately. Is this some kind of early mid-life crisis? He's not even thirty yet. "I'm kind of tired, not much longer."

"Santa Barbara then," Tim says. "I mean there's Santa Maria, but it's not on the coast. And the hotels aren't anywhere near as nice." He laughs. "Or we could just park next to the freeway like those surfers over there, Master." He jerks his head toward the other side of the freeway where a bunch of cars and campers are parked in a frontage road between the freeway and the ocean.

"Is that why you got an SUV?"

"You've figured out my evil plan, Master," Tim says with a laugh. 

Buster laughs with him and that's companionable too. 

Less than a minute later, the car jerks and then swerves. As Buster fights with it, he hears the loud flap flap of rubber against pavement. "Fuck! Goddammit!" 

They're lucky; traffic's light and Buster is able to get from the fast lane to the shoulder on the right side. It's a wide shoulder and between the safety of it and the fact that the sun hasn't gone down yet....

"It could be worse," he says. "I hope they have a real spare in there, though. I hate those donuts."

Tim looks contrite. He opens his mouth to speak, but Buster cuts him off

"If you're thinking of apologizing, don't," Buster says. "I don't blame boys for things outside their control."

Tim looks relieved and Buster can't help wondering which owner did blame him for shit like that. Asshole, he thinks.

Thankfully, there is a full-sized spare. Buster rolls up his sleeves, grabs the jack and gets started. "Too bad Bum's not here. He fixed the team bus once in Denver."

"Really, Master?"

"Yeah. Something went wrong--I never found out what--and he stood up and said, 'Ah fix it.' He dicked around under the hood and got back on the bus and said, 'start'er up.' The bus was fine and we made it to the hotel."

Tim laughs and Buster looks up at him, wondering if he's laughing at the story or Buster's Bum impression. Both, hopefully.

"I could have changed the tire, Master," Tim says, once the job's done and they're back on the highway. There's an odd note in his voice, some carefully suppressed feeling. 

"Why would I ask you to do that?" Buster says. He looks at Tim for a moment and thinks he's figured it out. "It's not that I don't think you could do it."

"I thought you'd ask because I'm the slave, Master."

"Oh," Buster says. He didn't ask because it wasn't sexual, he thinks immediately, but that's stupid. Cooking isn't sexual either, but he's never had a problem when his boys cook for him. "Guess it just makes me feel manly," he says with a laugh.

"Because that's a problem you have...Master." As soon as the words are out of Tim's mouth, he turns his head and looks out the window. 

Huh? Buster thinks. What's that about? 

He waits, but Tim's silent, so he just drives for a while before asking Tim to find them a hotel in Santa Barbara.

* * *

Buster's never been to Santa Barbara. It's nice, pretty even. Their hotel is right across the street from the beachfront and they have dinner at a casual seafood place with an incredible view. Tim had asked if Buster worried about being recognized and Buster had just laughed. 

"All I have to do is put less crap in my hair, so I look shaggy," he'd said. "And...well, you'll see if it happens."

Tim had looked unsure, but he relaxes a little once they sat down to dinner. 

"It's funny," he says lowering his gaze before looking up at Buster again. Public deference isn't always easy, but Tim manages it deftly. 

Anyone looking at him, Buster thinks, would probably think he's just shy. 

"What's funny?"

"There are a lot of famous people in the club, Master, but I've never been owned by someone recognizable."

"Only somewhat recognizable. "

And sure enough, as they're leaving, a guy in a Padres cap does a double take when he sees Buster. Buster looks at him with a vaguely polite expression--a sort of distant, do I know you look. The guy shake his head and looks away.

"I wouldn't get away with it up north," Buster says as they walk along the beachfront on their way back to the hotel. "But who expects to see Buster Posey in some random restaurant in Santa Barbara?"

"There is that, Master."

"That doesn't mean I'm going to hold your hand, though."

Tim glances sideways at him. "Probably not a good idea, Master."

He sounds amused and, for the first time, Buster has the feeling Tim's laughing at him. He doesn't like it.

"No it isn't. You're not my boyfriend, after all."

"No, I'm not, Master." This time, Tim's tone is level, very correct for a slave.

Buster wonders if he hurt Tim's feelings, but, if he actually has, he's not sure what to do about it. And anyway, all he did was remind Tim of his place. The thought feels like justification, though. He doesn't like that either.

That night, he gags Tim and cuffs his wrists behind his back. He kind of wants to beat the crap out of him, but they have a long drive ahead of them. In the end, he clamps Tim's nipples instead, lies back and plays with the clamps while Tim rides him. 

He doesn't let Tim come.

 

* * *

Buster decides to roll with the mid-life crisis concept--after breakfast, instead of asking the rental people to deal with the tire on the BMW, he has Tim rent a sports coupe, a Mercedes this time. The weather forecast looks good for most of the trip and he might as well enjoy the drive.

It turns to be a good idea. Buster's not as into driving as Brandon is, but the route is pretty and there's more green on the hills than Buster's used to seeing in California. When he mentions it to Tim, Tim nods.

"Winter's my favorite season, Master." He pauses a second. "Well, on the West Coast, at least."

"Where all have you lived?" Buster asks. "I mean, as much as you can tell me."

"Oh I can tell, Master--no reclusive billionaires on the list."

"I'm more curious about the where, than the who."

Tim leans back in his seat and nods. "I got lucky the first time; my Master lived in Portland. It was a little weird, being that close to home, but I knew the city and we went up to the Seattle club a lot."

Buster can't help laughing. "My first pro team was in Hawaii. Not quite as close to home."

"But you played up in the Northwest at one point, didn't you, Master? Salem-Keizer?"

Again, Tim's been doing his homework. "Yeah, but only a few games." Buster frowns a little as he tries to remember his stats. "Two games? No three games--two doubles with three RBIs. I think there were a couple walks in there too." 

Tim looks at him, not bothering to hide his surprise. 

"I've got a head for stats," Buster says with a laugh. "Especially my own."

"Do you think it helps, Master? Knowing all your own stats?"

"Only when I'm doing well. I mean, it's helpful and a useful tool to measure your skills and blah blah blah." He takes a hand off the wheel and makes a talk talk gesture. 

"But half the time you're thinking, 'I was better last month, what's wrong with me?' And it takes like, what, thirty seconds to look me up on Baseball Reference or ESPN? So the fans are also thinking 'he was better last month, what's wrong with him.' Bad enough that you know they're thinking it; they're also tweeting it."

Shrugging ruefully, he adds, "That's why I let my agent's people run my twitter and try not to listen to call in shows. I'm hard enough on myself as it is." 

"There are times, Master, when I think all athletes should just let their agents run their twitters." 

Especially your brother, Buster thinks, but doesn't say. Lincecum is known for getting into beef with fans and other players. Lincecum, Buster thinks, is actually kind of a jackass.

"Except maybe Brandon," he says. "Some guy once tweeted about how he didn't even start one game in the '12 Series, and he just tweeted back a picture of his ring."

"Seriously, Master? He was amazing out of the bullpen."

"Yeah, he was, especially coming back so soon after TJs. I was really proud of him."

Out of the corner of his eye, Buster sees the almost indulgent smile on Tim's face. 

Before he can stop himself, he says, "what?"

"You sound like his big brother, Master."

"I suppose. I...uh...get like that with some of my pitchers." 

"They're lucky to have you, Master." When Buster raises a skeptical eyebrow, Tim shakes his head. "It's not flattery, Master. I'm hardly the only one who thinks you're the best catcher in baseball."

Buster takes a deep breath and then another, hoping Tim can't see how weird this kind of conversation makes him feel. He's about to brush off the compliment like he always does, but instead he finds himself telling Tim the truth. "I know," he says. "I don't ever say it, for obvious reasons, but I know how good I am." He pauses, but the words are already tumbling from his brain to his mouth like some kind of logjam has just broken up.

"It's not as much of a comfort as you'd think, though. I feel slighted when they're giving out Golden Gloves, even though I know I shouldn't. And, like I said, I set a pretty high standard for myself and then get upset when I don't live up to it." He can't even bite back the next words. "And sometimes when other guys don't."

There's a long silence after that and then Buster shakes his head. "Weren't we talking about you?" he asks, laughing a little so Tim knows he's not angry at the digression.

Tim smiles at him. "Yes, Master, we were." He pauses for a drink of Mountain Dew. "I don't know how much of my file you've read...."

"I don't read that much about my boys' pasts," Buster says quickly. "I want to know what you can do, what you can take, what you like and don't like, Trainer's reports...that sort of thing. I like to know where my boys have been, but only if they feel like sharing. About your past owners, well, you have excellent references from them and that's enough for me." I'm mostly just nosy about you, he thinks, but this time he manages to keep his mouth shut.

"Thank you, Master," Tim says. "For telling me, I mean."

Buster's not sure what to answer, but Tim looks more like he's getting his thoughts in order than like he's waiting for a response. "Portland was the usual first time, six month, contract, but my owner liked newbies and variety, so he didn't renew."

I tend to take more time off in between contracts than the usual three months; this, Master," he pauses and gestures between them. "It gets a little intense."

It does for Buster too, but it's an intensity he likes for some reason. Something that gives him an edge when he needs it and a way to take that edge off. A slave, though, is supposed give all his attention to his Master. "I can see needing a longer offseason," he says.

"Yeah, it's like that, Master." Tim says. Buster's a little surprised at the informality, but he's always liked that in a boy. He usually has to tell them it's okay, though. Either Tim's figured him out, or he's just like that until told otherwise.

"Like I said earlier, Master," Tim continues, "my second owners lived in Montecito most of the time. I wasn't a pony, but I learned a lot about them. You don't play the ponies, Master?"

"I don't even follow them," Buster says. "All the major races take place during the season. And it's not really my kink. They're amazing athletes, though."

"They really are, Master. I couldn't do it any more than I could pitch."

"I might not know much about ponygirls and boys, but I do know pitching," Buster says. "You're built a lot like Romo, after all. And you're disciplined enough to handle the grind."

"Different kind of discipline, Master, but thank you." Tim's voice is a little cooler than before.

"Anyway," Buster says. "If there's a race in Napa when you're not with me on a roadie, you could go."

"Master?" Tim sounds shocked.

Buster's a little surprised at himself, but he just shrugs. "I have friends in the club who don't play ball; I'm sure I could loan you to someone for a weekend. And I'd want to hear all about it, of course."

"Oh, on loan, Master," Tim says and Buster can hear his relief. 

"Just a thought," Buster says. He likes lending his boys out and if he can combine it with something Tim might beg for, well, why not? "How long were you in Montecito?"

"A year and a half, Master. The second contract with them was my first year long contract. I liked Montecito and of course we went to races in Napa and upstate New York." He laughs a little. "Before I joined the Establishment, I'd never been farther from home than LA." 

"You actually like traveling? I get tired of it, and I don't even make any of my own arrangements."

"Neither did any of my owners, Master," Tim says. 

Buster can't help giggling. He's tried to learn not to, but dry little jokes out of nowhere can get to him. BCraw does it to him all the time. 

"You did not," he says with exaggerated sternness, "hear me do that."

"Hear what, Master?" Tim says with equally exaggerated innocence.

"Good boy." 

"Still, Master, I'll bet it's different traveling for fun and not for work."

"True," Buster says. "So where'd you go after that contract?"

"Montreal, Master, for six months. The club there, not with an owner. I had a lot of fun, met a lot of people, and learned some French. It's a nice city; too bad you never had have a chance to play there." 

"Maybe someday. I mean the A's live in hope." Buster shakes his head. "Well no, not really. God only knows what the A's want. I'm not sure what they know what they want. Well, the organization. Most of the team just wants a better park."

"It's looks pretty shabby, Master."

"It's a dump," Buster says. "I like the rivalry though and their fans are a different kind of crazy than ours. I hope they work something out and stay."

"April Second and Third at AT&T, Master, and the Fourth at O.co."

"You've memorized the whole schedule, haven't you?"

Tim gives him that little smile."I had to do something while I was lying on my stomach while you were filming, Master."

"I don't know it, yet. We all look it over when it comes out, but that's usually mid-September. We kinda had other things on our minds last year."

"That must have been one hell of a ride, Master."

"It was insane," Buster says. He can't help grinning. "Fucking insane."

"My last owners were Cubs fans, Master, so of course they were for the NL."

"I'd say I feel sorry for them," Buster says, "but you can't really say that these days. The Cubs keep getting better." He stops as a thought occurs to him and goes over dates in his head. "If you were with someone during in October, then you only took a quarter off this last time?"

"It was only a six month contract, Master and I'd just taken six months off. My owners' regular boy tore his ACL skiing and I already knew them from the club, so it worked out for everyone. That was my only private sale."

Buster's never even considered that you could maybe buy someone you met working in the club. "Are all the house subs contract in-house slaves in between contracts? I've never really thought about it."

"Not everyone, Master. Some are in training, usually just refresher training, though, not newbies. And some people just don't like the idea of twenty-four/seven. You don't have to live in house, even at the resort clubs."

Buster nods. The resort clubs are more like complexes than anything else; technically San Francisco qualifies, but only because the big training house in Napa is considered part of the San Francisco club. It doesn't have the incredible in house services that LA or Chicago does, although there is a hotel attached to it. 

"And not everyone who takes more than three months between contracts works at a club, Master. Some people step away from the system for a while. I took two years off a while back."

Buster knows better than to ask why and as much as he's curious about what Tim did with his time off, he doesn't ask that either. "I did see that in your file when I was looking at your timeline. You've never actually seen your file, have you?" When Tim shakes his head, Buster continues. "They have a simple timeline--when you came into the Est and when your contracts were, but without owner's names. I didn't actually read the more detailed stuff about each contract."

Out of the corner of his eye, Buster sees an odd look on Tim's face.

"What?"

"I've just...." He trails off and then, before Buster has to decide whether to press or just leave it be, he speaks again. "Master, I've never had an owner who didn't study my file cover to cover."

"Normally I'd have looked at it a lot more closely, but...." It's his turn to have a hard time finishing his sentence. "I dunno why I haven't." He sighs, mildly annoyed with himself, and wondering if he shouldn't have told Tim even that much about how files are set up. After all, Tim's information is for his owners and the club, not him. "I just...." 

There's an exit with a gas station coming up and Buster's happy for the distraction. "I've gotta take a leak," he says. "And I need some snacks."

As they're paying for the snacks, Buster looks at the cans of dip behind the counter and feels a little echo of an old need. No, he tells himself. No.

Establishment slaves are some of the most observant people Buster's ever met--once they get back in the car, Tim looks over at him. "I've never seen you dip on TV, Master."

"I quit a few years ago," Buster says. "Before that, I tried very hard to not get caught doing it on TV. Brandon's right--it's a disgusting habit, but there've been times when bubble gum just isn't enough." He shrugs. "I only really miss it during the postseason and when I'm driving long distance. It's like, Pavlovian or something; I started in the travel league so I associate it with bus rides." 

"After the club in Montreal, Master, I was two years in Texas. My owner's manager and a lot of her hands dipped."

"Her? Big vanity spread out in West Texas? Her real money's in oil?" When Tim nods, Buster adds, "yeah, I've met her. We--me n the guys, I mean--met her in New York a few years ago. It was hilarious; she recognized Brandon first and only then realized we were, and I quote, 'a couple of his teammates.'"

"Mr. Belt was a Longhorn, Master?"

"Yup. Took them all the way to the College World Series. They lost in the finals, but he likes to remind me that the Seminoles never got that far. We never fucking grow up, you know. We're still a bunch of little kids bragging in a playground somewhere."

"Master?"

"Mmmm?"

"I think growing up is overrated, Master."

Tim's smiling when he says it, but Buster gets the feeling Tim just told him something important. Is that maybe part of the appeal for Tim? Not having to make decisions? Having strict rules? Or it could be something different, something Buster can relate to. What if Tim doesn't know what he's going to do with his life once he's done with the Est. Buster can sure relate to that. 

"Yeah," he says. "I think you're right."

They look at each other for a second before Buster turns his attention back to the road. They're not on the coast yet and right now the highway's lined with big eucalyptus trees. Buster drinks some water and chews on a piece of jerky and watches the highway for a while, trying to just drive and not think for a while.

Tim snorts softly and then his head jerks up. When he catches Buster looking at him, he looks contrite. "Sorry, Master."

"Yeah, how dare you sleep during a long drive in a comfortable car," Buster says. "Seriously, we'll be on the road for hours; go ahead and get some sleep. I'll wake you if I need you."

"Thank you, Master." He's asleep again less than two minutes later.

Tim sleeps just as neatly in a car as he does in bed. Buster, who's taken a lot of shit over the years because he snores and sometimes even drools when he naps on planes and buses, wonders if it's something you can learn. Like maybe they teach it at the Establishment? No, he thinks. Adrian snored both on planes and in bed; Buster finally had to beat the crap out of him to keep him from apologizing for it. 

Now, as the miles and tiny towns he'll forget in an hour roll by, Buster settles in and gives his attention to the road. 

* * *

They eat a late breakfast at small burger joint in a town with a giant rock in the harbor. The rock is cool, but the burgers are amazing. Buster has two. 

"So spicy stuff is okay, Master?" Tim asks, watching as Buster eats the last small piece of jalapeño bacon left on his plate. They're sitting outside at a picnic table; it's cool, but as long as they're in the sun, Buster doesn't need his jacket. There's no one else around.

"This isn't all that spicy," Buster says. "But yeah, jalapeños are fine. Ghost peppers, or sriracha on the other hand...." He shakes his head. 

"I'll keep that in mind, Master," Tim murmurs. 

"Do you actually like planning menus and doing the shopping?" Buster asks. "Because it's okay if you want to do those box service things. I mean, I'd be fine with pizza or Thai take-out every night, but the trainers kind of frown on that kind of eating." 

"So do our Trainers, Master," Tim says with that little smile. 

Buster smiles back. "You look like you could survive on pizza and be just fine," he says. 

"I'm lucky, Master," Tim says. "It's actually hard for me to put on weight; I mostly work out to stay flexible." He leans in a little and says, "Please don't tell my Trainers, Master, but when I worked at the LA club, I pretty much survived on In-n-Out."

"Now I have something other than feathers to hold over you."

"No please, Master," Tim says, looking extremely cowed. "I'll be good, I promise."

"You better be," Buster says. He's trying to sound overly mean, but he can't help laughing a little. 

"And anyway, Master, I don't think you'd resort to blackmail." Tim tilts his head a little and looks through his lashes at Buster. "You probably have all kinds of ways to get a boy to behave."

And just like that, Buster gets the feeling they're doing the one thing an owner and slave are never, ever supposed to do, but do in fact do--negotiate. Sometimes, if you're thinking of doing something the slave has to sign off on, you can just flat out ask. Most of those things, though, involve permanent marks of one kind of another. What they're talking their way around now, is about a kink--does Buster like brats?

He has no doubt Tim can be as bratty as the next slave and something tells him that Tim might even enjoy doing it. They teach it, he knows, which is pretty weird--slave Trainers teaching slaves to how to misbehave. He supposes there's a trick to it; you can always tell when someone has permission to act up just for their Master's fun. 

Does Buster like it? That depends on the boy, and while he's getting to know Tim surprisingly quickly, he's still not sure. He remembers last night on the beach and thinks he might like Tim bratting if it didn't involve Tim laughing at him. It's weird that he's worried about that. Tim's an excellent slave, after all, and good slaves don't laugh at their Masters.

"I like to think I do," he says. It's kind of non-committal and a little passive-aggressive, but what's he supposed to say? Oh hey, try misbehaving so I can see if I like it from you? It'll work out, he thinks with a mental shrug.

"But to answer your earlier question, Master, I do like to cook. I'll have to see how much time it takes to shop in San Francisco, though."

"You'll have plenty of time when I'm not around," Buster says. "But if you want to have groceries delivered, that's fine."

"Yes, Master."

Past the town with the rock, highway leaves the coast for a bit and then suddenly, returns--the view is all rocky coastline, dark water, and white foam. He's seen this coast before, up around Monterey, but it still amazes him. "I love Georgia," he says. "But California is the most beautiful place I've ever been."

"I think it's the way everything's so close, Master. If you wanted to see the same types of landscapes in Europe, you'd probably have to go to three or four different countries." He gestures toward the window. "We left what's almost a desert yesterday afternoon, Master, and here we are on a rocky coast with damp, green hills. If we'd gone east yesterday, we could skiing right now."

"You've been to Europe?"

"Master, the only continent I haven't been on is Antarctica."

"Seriously? Did you travel when you took the longer break?"

"No, Master. Or at least, not very much." He shrugs just a little. "After I came back from that long break break, my Master lived in New York and London, but mostly we were on the road. Not for work; he didn't need to work. He'd just suddenly want to go to Tibet and we'd be on our way as soon as I could arrange it. Once we literally went to JFK and he just looked at the departures and picked a couple and we took the first flight that had available seats."

"Wow," Buster says, trying to imagine being that spontaneous. He can't, not at all. "Where'd you end up?"

"Athens, Master. We stayed in Greece for a month and then spent a couple weeks in Turkey."

"Wow," Buster says again. "How long were you with him?"

"Two years, Master. Then I was in Chicago, like I said, and then I went to LA for training and...."

"And here we are," Buster says. "Not as exciting."

"Master, I've never been this close to someone with one World Series ring let alone three." Tim snickers just a little. "I mean, the only other pro player I really know is a Dodger."

"Maybe some year they won't have to face the Cards," Buster says. I lucked out there, he thinks. This would probably be even weirder if Tim actually liked his brother.

Tim snickers again, but doesn't say anything. 

Buster pulls over next time there's a turn out. The air is cold and it's windy, but it's still clear. "i actually miss it when I go back to Leesburg," he says, after a moment spent looking out over the sea. The tide must be high; the waves are slamming up against the rocks with no sign of sand or even tide pools. "The ocean, I mean."

"I miss it too, Master," Tim says. 

"Unfortunately, you can't see it from the house." He turns to actually look at Tim. "It's down in Noe Valley; I got it for the full, finished basement, not the view."

"Well now I'm intrigued, Master."

"Damn," Buster says. "I was hoping you were afraid."

He stares at Tim with what he thinks of as his toppy look. Between the sound of the wind and the distant roar of surf, he can't hear Tim's breath catch, but he can see Tim's face change.

"I am now, Master," he says. He glances at the road and then sighs. "I would go down on my knees right now if I could, Master." 

Buster's momentarily tempted to have Tim blow him in the car, but the thought of getting caught is pretty terrifying. Romo getting pulled over with weed in his car was bad enough, but at least that was before Buster's time. Aside from Melky, they haven't had a big scandal since that, and Buster has no desire to be the next one. 

"It's where you belong," Buster says. "But maybe not right now." 

Even though he knows he'll be too tired for much of a scene tonight, Buster suddenly feels the urge to get back on the road. One settled behind the wheel, he has to remind himself that this is a dangerous road he's never driven before. He also has to adjust everything a little; it's never easy to drive with a hardon.

He glances at the front of Tim's jeans and yeah, Buster's not the only one with a boner. Tim squirms a little and Buster shakes his head. "Slut."

"Yes, Master," Tim says. He doesn't do it again, though, and as Buster eases onto the highway, he's glad. Tim's pretty distracting.

Ten minutes later, Tim's not so distracting. After yawning a couple times, he says, "I'm sorry, Master, I should have warned you that I have auto-narcolepsy. If you need someone to talk to, I can stay awake."

"Auto-narcolepsy?" Buster laughs. "I like that. And don't worry about it, as long as you can sleep with music on."

Tim can sleep with music on; even when it's Brantly Gilbert . He'd balled up his sweater against the window before nodding off, but, unlike a lot of people, he doesn't look any younger while sleeping. Buster keeps glancing over at him, trying to figure it out, before thinking that maybe Tim's distracting regardless. 

The further north they go, the more they move into Giants territory. Buster starts seeing the occasional stickers and license plate holders and he thinks he understands why Brandon likes driving to San Francisco. He can't really put it into words, but it's like coming back slowly makes it feel more like coming home. 

Or maybe, it's just that more and more, Buster thinks of San Francisco when he thinks of home. He owns a place in Leesburg--the farmhouse his great-great-uncle built back in the '20s. He's not sure why his cousin left it to him, but at least he's not living in his old bedroom at his folks' place during the offseason. Then again, he's not really living in the farmhouse very much either. His parents know that he has casual lovers, but they never ask for names, let alone suggest Buster bring anyone home. 

He should be angry about that, and in a way he is; tolerating his "lifestyle" is as far as they're willing to go. One of the reasons Buster still loves his siblings is that they seem to be perfectly okay with who he is. Sam even asks about his boyfriends now and then. Still, the situation with his parents does make it easier to limit his visits home to a week here and there. If they were a little more understanding, he'd go for nine month contracts for his boys and spend more time at home, but....

He's going over all too familiar territory. Cut it out, he tells himself. He turns up the music and keeps his eyes peeled for more signs of Giants fans. 

Lunch is sandwiches at a bakery in Big Sur and they spend most of it talking about food again. Tim learns that Buster likes avocado on a lot of things and Buster learns that blat is actually a somewhat complicated Russian word and not just a silly name for a sandwich.

"What's Russia like?" he asks, once they're back in the car.

"Beautiful, Master," Tim says. "Really really cold, though, even in March. Not a great place to be gay unless you're rich and it's an even worse place to be kinky. You have to be super rich for that."

"Is there actually a club there?"

"Sort of, Master," Tim says, making a so-so gesture. "There are places you can go--places the Establishment knows about--but no official club. And even those places are dangerous; Russia's still a surveillance state, after all. If there was an official club, even Establishment security wouldn't be able to keep up and the government would have way too much information about the rich and powerful."

"Huh...makes sense. Even here...." He pauses and falls silent. He can't believe he was about to tell Tim that Bum occasionally worries about government surveillance at Establishment clubs. That kneejerk distrust of the government of is one of the few backcountry attitudes Buster's learned not to tease him about 

"Master, I'm not sure owners hear this kind of...of scuttlebutt, but there are always rumors we're all about to be outed, even though it hasn't happened in over a hundred years." 

"The ones I hear say that the secret's gotten out a couple of times, but it was quickly hushed up. Of course, no one can ever tell you when that happened, or how. If I was paranoid, I'd say that they're trying to keep us hyper-vigilant or something." He shrugs a shoulder. "I'm a gay man playing America's most conservative sport. I don't need the reminder."

"Master, may I ask," Tim begins.

"Yeah?"

"You said the team knows about you being gay, Master? And Mr. Belt and Mr. Bumgarner?"

"Bum's bi, but yeah, they know. I've had other guys tell me their team just kinda knew without anyone saying anything, but in my case...." Is he really going to tell this story? 

"In my case, I got drunk after we clinched the NLDS in 2010 and some of the guys wanted to take me to a strip club and maybe get me laid. And instead of doing the smart thing, like faking it and going with them, I said something about how they should find a Chippendale's show instead."

Tim's staring at him and Buster shakes his head. "After all this time, I still can't believe I said it. And it was Huff and Burrell and Rowand...I was sure I was gonna get the crap kicked out of me. Instead, they just dragged me off to a bar and got me even drunker. Once they knew, the team knew, but no one ever said anything to me about it and only a couple guys were weird about it.

"But yeah, it went a lot better with the team than it did...." He cuts himself off. "You won't be meeting my parents."

Tim just nods, like Buster just gave him a new house rule.Yet again, Buster appreciates his tact. 

"Anyway, word gets around about guys somehow; other teams find out. It's weird how it can turn into an issue, like when some jackass says something stupid on Twitter or to a reporter, but no one ever says anything inside the clubhouse. And no one,not even the jackasses, has ever outed another player to the media or public."

"That's pretty impressive, Master."

"Yeah, we're--Bum and Brandon and I--are lucky because this team takes it's...I guess you could say moral center from Affeldt. He's one of the most religious guys on the team, but he's really tolerant. I'm sure our thing," he gestures between the two of them, "would freak him out. But even so, he's one of my best friends." 

"Are you...do you go to church, Master?"

'No," Buster says.

"Doesn't anyone ask why you have a new boyfriend every year, Master? You said it was a running joke, but don't people think it's weird?"

"But it's not, not in baseball. Guys who aren't married have new girlfriends all the time. Hunter had like two or three before he met Lexi and no one thought it was weird. And it can follow the season too; you meet someone in the off season and then they find out what the grind is like and what it does to you and...." He shrugs. "It's the girls who joke about it. The wives, I mean."

He pauses and looks over at Tim. "You're going to spend time pretending to be my boyfriend, but it doesn't have to be too much time. One of my boys used to sit with the girls during home games, but the other two just sat in different parts of the park. Everyone still knew I had a boyfriend, but that was all. I'll leave it up to you for the most part."

"Thank you, Master," Tim says. "For telling me all that."

"You're a captive audience," Buster says. He rolls his eyes. "Because you've never heard that before."

"Does Master wish his boy to laugh at all his jokes?" Tim asks, his eyes wide.

"Oh fuck no," Buster says. "They're usually pretty bad."

Tim smiles at him and suddenly Buster really really wants to fuck him. 

If they were on a different, less straight road, like I-5, Buster would risk playing with Tim just a little. Instead, they talk about baseball. Buster's not sure how much Tim knows about the Giants because of his brother and how much he knows thanks to recent research, but he asks intelligent questions. He even disagrees with Buster more than once without apologizing for it, while somehow making it clear that he hasn't forgotten he's Buster's slave.

They stop at Bixby Creek and Buster gets his phone out to take a few pictures. It's late afternoon and he can see clouds building up offshore, but the sun's still shining where they are and the bridge and the mouth of the creek below it are lit perfectly. 

After a couple more shots of the bridge, the creek and the beach, Buster turns to get a picture of the northern view and there's Tim right on the screen of his phone. He's staring out at the ocean and he looks like his mind's a million miles away. Buster automatically takes a picture and then feels odd. He turns enough to get Tim out of the shot and takes another picture. By the time he lowers his phone, Tim's looking his way again. Buster just nods at him and checks the weather. 

Just as Buster had thought, those clouds are headed right at the coast. "Dammit. t'll be raining before we hit the City and I'm not sure I want to be on this road in the rain."

"We can cut over to the 101, Master." Tim pulls his phone out of his pocket. After a moment, he hands it to Buster. "See, Master? We can cut east there at Monterey and then take the 101 the rest of the way,"

"Good boy," Buster says. "I mean it," he adds. "You're good."

Tim's smile is broad and genuine. "Thank you, Master."

Thankfully, the rain holds off until just outside San Jose. It's just after eight, though--well past rush hour--and the traffic is moving briskly enough. Buster's tired and he gets that bus ride feeling again. 

"So close," he murmurs. "And yet so far away."

"Master?" Tim sounds a little puzzled. "Would you like me to drive the rest of the way?"

Buster's tempted...okay, more than tempted. "That's not what I was talking about, but yeah, why don't you?" He feels compelled to add, "I could make it, but there's no point in pushing it."

Once Tim's behind the wheel, Buster leans back and watches the rain hit the windshield. The wipers sweeping back and forth are almost hypnotizing; Tim's left the music on but Buster switched over to something quiet and Tim's not making any kind of noise. Buster could almost be all by himself in some kind of pod or capsule.

"I was talking about this trip--San Jose to San Francisco. See, you're finally in high A and there's the promised land, just an hour up 101. You're watching their games on local TV whenever you can and...it's hard to explain, but I wanted to end the season there and not here."

He's not even surprised at himself for getting so personal. Apparently, it's just going to happen and he can either roll with it or watch every single word he says, and he does that enough on the job. Tim's easy to talk to and he's safe, so why not?

"Which you did, Master."

"Which I did." Buster smiles at the windshield, remembering the call. If you're lucky, your baseball career is punctuated with increasingly important phone calls and office chats with your manager. He thinks about that first call, way back in college, when he got drafted....

"Master?" Someone's shaking Buster. "Master?" A little louder now.

"Hmmmm? Okay, Jaime...uh, Tim. Sorry." Buster blinks. 

"Happens all the time, Master," Tim says with a laugh. 

"Oh?" Buster looks around. They're in his driveway; it's raining pretty hard and it's maybe an hour since he fell asleep. He rubs his face. "Okay, 'm awake." He barely has to fumble with his keys, so it must be true,

"Remind me to give you the security code tomorrow," hesays, once they're in the house. 

"Yes, Master."

"We'll talk about other house rules and whatever tomorrow, too. Right now, I'm tired and I wanna take a leak and have a sandwich, a shower and some kind of sex." He waves at the fridge. "Roast beef, horseradish mayo, cheddar, lettuce and red onions. And make something for yourself."

By the time Buster finishes his sandwich and a coke, he's found his second wind. At least some of it. He's not going to pass out on his feet, and that's all that matters. Not having to drive that last hour helped. "Well," he says as Tim clears the dishes. "I guess this meana I can trust you with my truck."

"Thank you, Master," Tim says with a smile. "I know what that means to a Southerner."

Buster smiles back.

Like everyone else, Tim's surprised that Buster doesn't sleep in the master suite. "Too big; I felt like I was rattling around," Buster says, like that isn't how he feels the rest of the house too. Sometimes he wonders if he puts too much emphasis on catering to his sex life; buying a house just to have your own dungeon seems a little extreme. He blinks and tries to concentrate on the here and now. 

"I've got some gym equipment in there, although during the season, I mostly work out at the yard. You can explore tomorrow," he continues, as he leads Tim up to the third floor. "It's just a couple guest bedrooms and my office. Not very interesting."

They're under the eaves now, in what was probably once an attic. Given the size of the house though, there's enough space up here for a bathroom, a short hall and two rooms. "That one's mine," Buster says, nodding toward the room with a door. "And this one's yours."

The room opens into the hall--no door. It's lined with large closets, but there's plenty of room for furniture too. "There's space in the closet and that dresser over there is for your stuff. All the furniture in here is yours, you can move it and put anything you don't want down in the basement." He pauses and yawns. "We'll go over the rest of it later."

For the most part, Buster's not in the habit of having his boys join him in the shower, but right now, he's tired and feels like a kid who's stayed up way past his bedtime. He could use some pampering. Tim's soapy hands feel good on Buster back and running through Buster's hair; Buster sighs and feels then tension leaving his shoulders.

"Master," Tim says as he finishes with Buster's hair . "Would you like a massage? Or even a quick back rub?"

"That," Buster says, turning around. "Is not on the list." He reaches for Tim, shoving him against the wall of the shower.

"Lists are set in stone, Master?" Tim's voice is breathy and Buster can see him swallow hard. 

"The sex part usually is," Buster says with a laugh.

He plays with Tim's jewelry, twisting his nipple rings and tugging hard on the PA. For the first few days, seeing the thick metal ring in Tim's dick made Buster want to wince and cross his legs. But now, as he plays with it and watches Tim squirm and moan, he thinks he's getting used to it. He's getting used to the ladder of barbells on the underside of Tim's dick too. He rubs his thumb along them, watching as Tim's hands clench and flex in response. Nice, Buster thinks.

There's only one thing.

"We're wasting water," Buster says. "We need to finish getting clean."

"Is it that bad up here, Master?" Tim asks, his voice a little husky. He blinks a little and then focusses on Buster. 

"Yeah," Buster says. "Or so were told."

Finally, Buster thinks as he looks down at Tim a few minutes later. Home. Finally. New boy. Finally. He's chained Tim to the bed by his wrists and really likes what he sees. True, Tim looks good regardless, but now he's in Buster's bed. Where he belongs, Buster thinks. 

"Why don't you scoot," he begins and then smiles. "Never mind, just spread your legs, boy."

"Yes, Master."

Buster settles in between Tim's legs and grips his hips tightly. Lifting Tim's ass off the bed, he pulls Tim down the bed until Tim's arms are stretched above his head and there's no slack to the chain. "Better," he says. And then, "what's got you going, slut?" when he sees that Tim's staring at him, eyes wide, lips parted just a little.

Tim swallows. "The casual man-handling, Master," he says.

"Oh God, you're going to be so bad for my ego," Buster says, grabbing the lube off the bed where he tossed it earlier. Tim squirms as Buster fingers him, stretching and tugging at the chain attaching his bound hands to the headboard. 

"Tug all you want--you're not going anywhere." Tim's blushing and Buster laughs. "I'm not gonna let you roll over, either. I wanna see you take it."

"Yes, Master," Tim says, his eyes wide. He looks both eager and a little scared, although Buster doubts he's really all that frightened. 

Well, not yet, Buster thinks. 

By the time he's got Tim where he wants him, Buster's got four fingers up Tim's ass and Tim's panting hard. His eyes are tightly closed and the head of his dick is slick, and when Buster pauses, Tim moans. "Please...please, Master," he says, opening his eyes to look right at Buster. "Please, Master...."

"Please what?"

"Please...whatever you want, Master."

"Please what?" Buster asks again.

Tim gets the message. "Please, Master...please...need you to fuck me, please, Master?" When Buster twists his fingers again, Tim arches up off the bed. "Please please please...Master.'

"You're such a fucking slut," Buster says. He sits back on his heels and looks down at Tim. "Bet you want it all the time."

Looking like he's trying to concentrate, Tim shakes his head. "Only from you, Master."

Buster snorts. "Me and anyone else I feel like handing you over to. I could give you to the whole fucking team and all you'd do was beg for more."

"Oh God," Tim's eyes are huge and he swallows hard. "I might...might cry some too, Master."

"But you like the idea, don't you, slut?" Buster likes the idea too, at least in theory. He doesn't say so, however. He just lubes up his dick and shoves Tim's legs apart even further. 

"Yeah I do, Master," Tim says and then gasps as Buster presses inside him. "Ohhhh...." 

"Get those legs up around me, boy," Buster says. Right away, Tim slides his feet up along Buser's calves and then wraps his legs around Buster's waist. Planting his hands on the mattress next to Tim's chest, Buster starts fucking him, nice and slow and easy. 

It's not kinky, not yet, but it's good. Buster can feel the tension from the drive and the past week fading as he gives himself over to a different tension, to the feel of Tim beneath him and the look of him as Buser fucks him. Buster's way too tired to take that new tension to the edge and back off, but he lets it build slowly, winding himself up with each steady stroke. It's working for Tim too, if the way he's moaning is any clue. His heels dig into the small of Buster's back and...there. There's the moment Buster's been waiting for--Tim tilts his head back and closes his eyes. 

Tim's neck is long and slim and utterly inviting, and his eyes open immediately when Buster reaches down and rests a hand on it. Buster can feel, rather than see, Tim's quick swallow and then the deep breath he takes and holds. But Buster takes this slow as well, barely tightening his grip at first. Tim shudders and keeps taking those deep breaths. For a moment or two, Buster goes still, his hips up against Tim's ass. Control, he thinks, flexing his fingers and watching Tim's eyes widen. Power, he thinks, pressing down a little. 

Buster knows just how much pressure he can apply and he's had this done to him as well. If the way Tim's reacting, though, he's enjoying it a lot more than Buster did. Even though Buster knows he can still breathe, Tim's breath has sped up, his gasps of air quicker and more shallow. When Buster starts fucking him again--harder now, but still slow and steady--Tim whimpers, and God, that's a sound Buster's going to want to hear again and again. And he does; as he increases the pressure ever so slowly, Tim's whimpers get more and more breathy. 

It's fucking amazing, especially when Buster finally reaches the point where Tim's gasping for real. He looks scared now, but he's still hard as a rock and he's staring at Buster like Buster's the center of his world. Buster catches his breath and presses down a little harder, but even though it's obvious Tim's fighting for each breath, he's still looking up at Buster. Somehow Buster knows that Tim trusts him. Something twists inside him and he goes still, looking down at Tim.

"Come for me, boy," he says, and the moment's gone. He tightens his grip on Tim's neck as much as he's willing to risk. "C'mon, lemme feel it."

Tim goes tight around Buster's dick and comes so hard he gets some of it on his chin. Counting down in his head, Buster keeps his hand on Tim's neck as Tim shudders through the aftershocks. When he finally lets go, Tim sucks in a loud breath and says, "thank...thank you...Master," in a shaky voice. 

"Yeah," Buster says. He says it again and then gives Tim's throat a quick squeeze, before planting his hand on the pillow next to Tim's head. Gritting his teeth, he starts fucking Tim again, but only manages a couple of rough, jerky thrusts, before coming hard.

Breathing almost as fast as Tim was, Buster collapses on top of him, Tim's legs still around his waist. "Good boy," he mumbles against Tim's chest. "My good boy."

Later, as he listens to the rain and Tim's quiet breathing, Buster goes up on one elbow and looks at his new boy. He supposes he should have made Tim sleep in the other room, just to make a point, but he figures that choking him probably made it clear who's the Master and who's the slave in this house. Besides, it's cool in the bedroom and Tim's nice and warm next to him. Buster's still feeling a little wired, though, and and when he lies back down, he slowly begins relaxing his whole body, starting with his toes. It's something Hunter told him about and, as usual, Buster thinks that it's stupid and how can anyway can you really relax consciously like that?

He falls asleep before he gets to his thighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The place with the big rock is Moro Bay, which happens to be one of my favorite tiny CA beach towns. And OMG if you're ever there or driving through, stop at the Wee Shack for their amazing burgers because goddam. 
> 
> Sorry about the wait, I ended up hibernating for a little while in the middle of writing it. Now that baseball's back, I'm hoping to pick up the pace here.

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in 2015.
> 
> So there's a story as to how this happened. After I wrote [I've Traveled All this Way for Something](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2284176) I suddenly had the mental image of Tim being the slave and how he'd look all small and vulnerable if Buster, Belt and Bumgarner worked him over. It was supposed to be a simple stand alone scene, but hello, this is me and so it became a Thing.
> 
> For people who haven't read Traveled, all you need to know about the Establishment is that it's a kinky organization that has several kinky clubs and a network where rich people can buy contractual sex slaves. It's all very RACK--the slaves make the decision to sell themselves and they go through rigorous training. Owners go through a form of training as well, even though that's not something that's come up in fic so far.
> 
> I usually reserve my thanks for the very end of the fic, but in this case, I want to send out a shoutout to dammitshawzy on tumblr, whose encouragement, thoughts and feedback has made a huge difference. <3!!


End file.
